


Falcon: Sub Rosa

by TheSolarSurfer



Series: Falcon [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Incredible Hulk (2008), The Spectacular Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, Crossover, Drugs, F/M, Gangsters, Gen, Italian Mafia, Mystery, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Original Character, Sequel, Shipping, Superheroes, Swearing, Violence, superhero origin story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 165,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSolarSurfer/pseuds/TheSolarSurfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Falcon. The Rose has always been a symbol of secrecy and teenager Amelia Fletcher has plenty of things to hide; but the Rose also represents those who seek to do her and her family harm - and will do whatever it takes to control New York City. Amy now faces a new drug plaguing the city, rumors of a coup, a reluctant mentor and, oddly enough, young love. </p>
<p>Written in 2013, finished 2016. Originally posted on fanfiction.net, all notes preserved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Non Compos Mentis

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is the second edit of this chapter/story; unlike the first one, I feel this has a better focus. There are no extraneous characters I never actually planned on utilizing, there is a solid conflict that she has to overcome, and it has direct consequences that she must now deal with in the meantime. I also fixed the timeline; originally it was in January after Christmas break, but after rewatching the second season of Spectacular Spider-Man, I realized it starts after Thanksgiving break, now probably the beginning of December (Thanksgiving is always on the fourth/last Thursday of November), which I didn't really notice before. So, yeah, that happened.
> 
> I also don't know if I'm going to create a new conflict in an episodic basis to match the show or not...I have some set plots in mind, but I think it might be too long if I did thirteen 'episodes'. Maybe I'll skip a few, make it more 'novelly' or something, like Harry Potter or something.
> 
> Not as long, though. Hopefully.
> 
> Anyways, read and review! I'd like to know what you think of the edits, especially if you've read the previous version :)

**Chapter One**

**Non Compos Mentis**

* * *

 

"Good afternoon, Amelia," Mrs. Murphy said as she walked into the room with a folder of papers under her arm. "What a surprise to see you after school."

"Don't call me that," was all I said. I couldn't actually tell if the old woman was surprised or not, because her face was all pinched up as usual, and she spoke in a complete monotone. I wanted to guess that she _was_ surprised, because this was indeed a new experience for me. "It's just Fletcher."

"Very well, Miss Fletcher. Perhaps you might enjoy a rundown of what happens in this classroom after the final bell rings?" Mrs. Murphy asked, sitting down at the teacher's desk in the front corner of the room. She moved slowly, her creaky frame protesting to any movement that was too quick or frivolous, and she eyed me with a level of suspicion I was not unused to. "Seeing as there is no one else here to fill you in on the matter."

I didn't have to look around to know that I was the only student in the room, sitting in a desk off-center from the middle. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

There were so many ways to return to school after Thanksgiving vacation.

Talking about the meals, the football games, the weird family get-togethers that inevitably end on late nights with drunk uncle Bob talking about his days moose hunting with your dad and gramps in the backwoods of Wisconsin...

Usually, however, it's not spent earning your first detention.

I had never been in detention before. Like, _never_. Although, considering what happened, I could have gotten a lot worse. Even now, I already felt the urge to jump out the second-story window.

Let me explain before you all think I'm some crazy, hormone-addled teenager who's out of control and acting out as a secret cry for help, because I'm emotionally traumatized or something. Seriously, it's not like that at all.

* * *

 

It started in gym class. After Venom, after almost losing my mind to psychosis, I was a little slow getting back on the horse. I sat in the back of the class, didn't raise my hand, took naps under the nose of teachers who either didn't notice or didn't care. The first couple days went by swimmingly, and I was starting to feel a bit better, if more hungry. Like, really, _really_ hungry, but I guess that's what happens when you have a metabolism four-times-faster than the average human being. Translation: Not cheap to feed.

Anyways, let's just say Astor got back into the habit of messing with me. Apparently, people don't really change and I guess she just got bored with the idea of being a decent human being and decided to pick on me during basketball practice.

Now, I didn't play basketball and I wouldn't pretend I knew how, either. I knew basic things, and I could land a dunk from across the gym if I wanted to, but that wasn't skill, that was just good old fashioned telekinesis doing its work for me.

And, as things usually went in gym class, Astor was chosen team captain for the red jerseys, and I had been the last-picked for the blue jerseys. Oh, that stung. So small, so pitiful and unliked, that each team kept dodging the issue until it could no longer be dodged. I had to wait, with my back pressed against the wall, as the teams muttered and snickered as the other two were picked for two humiliating seconds, no one pointed a finger at me and said, "Amy, you're on our side."

At least Gwen was decent enough to give me a look of sympathy and a shrug of her shoulders. Peter made a rude gesture in the direction of Astor, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing and freak everyone out.

I couldn't fathom the reason why Astor would pick Peter. To piss me off? Although if she hadn't, Peter might be beside me against this wall, because the other team captain – Flash Thompson – sure as hell wasn't going to pick Puny Parker to be on his team.

Then again, Peter had proved himself capable of physical greatness, after trying out for the football team a couple months ago. It had gotten people's attention, that maybe that scrawny kid with the mop of brown hair might actually have good hand-eye coordination and muscles to boot.

Of course, knowing he was Spider-Man, this came as no surprise.

Not that I knew that at the time he tried out - in fact, I was still getting used to the idea, having just learned less than a week ago. And it kind of made sense now. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty, wasn't it?

"All right, let's just get this over with," Flash sighed, beleaguered to have me on his team. I wasn't a Parker, but I was close enough – maybe even worse, because I hadn't tried out for the football team, and no one knew I could be as fast or as strong as Peter on the field. "Who's got the ball?"

Man, he didn't even address me. Jerk.

It also kind of sucked to be on the opposite side of _both_ Peter and Gwen, because now I had no one to talk to. But Peter smiled at me, and I got the distinct feeling he was going to make this game a lot more interesting.

_Oh, please, don't do anything stupid_ , I begged, hoping the Universe would listen. _Just because we have superpowers doesn't mean I want to show off in front of everyone else._

Coach Bronson, with a magnificent mustache worthy of a 70's cop show, blew his whistle, and everyone burst into action.

I moved around only half-heartedly. Everyone was running, shouting, shuffling left to right as the ball was passed, bounced, passed again, back and forth and sometimes in a frustrating circle. Kids brushed past me, ignored me, and their moving patterns kept me herded to the edge. As much as I felt uncomfortable and unwanted in this situation, I wasn't feeling particularly spiteful (again, too tired to care), and didn't try to make things difficult for anyone by getting in their way.

(Once or twice I might have tripped a couple people "on accident". Not that they'd suspect anything else, of course).

Then, somehow, Peter had the ball. I don't know who passed it to him, or if he was just fast enough to intercept, but suddenly he was close and when he went to pass the ball over a blue-jersey's shoulder, it somehow slipped from his hands and flew directly towards me.

I, of course, caught it, because I was too distracted and then suddenly on high alert, to not to. It was instinct, seeing that orange flash, the blip on my radar, the automatic rise of my arms and turn of my palms to catch the ball that would have otherwise conked me on the head.

"Fletcher, go!"

Peter breezed by me, a smirk on his face, and I threw a dirty look his way before dodging a swipe to steal the ball. Suddenly, my heart was pounding and I was all too aware of my surroundings, the location of each and every player, their ever-changing positions, hectic but predictable, close but too slow to catch me.

I needed someone to pass to.

"Amy, over here!"

Flash, taller than the rest, was wide open, but there were half a dozen arms in his way, the red team knowing he was an easy target and swarming him in case I got brave.

I saw a different path and moved. The blue team practically jumped out of my way, surprised by the sudden action, and the red team leaped forward, trying to get an opening so I could pass.

I had two bounces to make before I got called out for travelling. Huh, I guess I knew more about basketball than I thought.

Still, I made my steps count. I spun around another red player, and without looking but knowing he was there, I tossed the ball in the air, watching in satisfaction as it landed squarely into Flash's hands. Two seconds later, and the ball swished through the hoop.

"What?" the kid that I had just dodged looked around in bewilderment, unable to comprehend how I made the successful pass without even looking in the right direction. "Lucky throw!"

"Sure," I muttered, taking a step back. "Lucky."

But my part wasn't over yet. When the ball came back to this end of the court, it was thrown and in my hands again – apparently somebody realized I wasn't as bad as they thought, and figured perhaps my luck would ring twice.

I took a step back to avoid the first red-team player coming my way, some redhead kid whose name I couldn't remember. The red team pulled in closer, apparently figuring out that I could throw pretty damn high, and suddenly I was cornered against the boundary line. One step over and it'd be a foul - _it's called a foul, right_? - and I'd lose the ball.

Maybe that was their plan. It wasn't a bad one.

I tried to find someone I could pass to, but the red team had gotten so close that any extension of my arms over my head would put the ball directly into the red team's hand. I knew my luck wasn't going to work this time, and was about to accept defeat, before Astor got impatient and acted.

She had been on my left, jeering and challenging me to make the pass, give up the ball. They were all so much taller than me, and really, I was going to lose anyways. I didn't want this attention, I just wanted to go unnoticed. This was not helping my case.

Unfortunately, Astor wasn't going to make it any easier.

"Come on already!" she snapped and jumped forward to grab the ball.

I jumped back to avoid her – _out of bounds, oh well_ – but Astor was bigger and her reached longer. She had her hands on the ball, was trying to wrestle it out of my grip.

At this point, whatever happened next would not be considered part of the game, since now we were fighting over the ball in an obviously against-the-rules manner. I didn't have that great of a grip on the ball anyways (unlike Peter, who was well protected against stealers thanks to his extra-sticky fingers) and was about to let go when Astor grabbed my wrist and dug her nails in.

I didn't know much about fighting dirty in basketball, but this seemed to qualify. It wasn't just desperate, it seemed _personal_ , she was _really_ digging in and yanking, and from the snarl on Astor's face I could tell she enjoyed the pain she inflicted. A burning sensation grew in my chest, furious at the obvious lack of human compassion. The hell was wrong with this chick?

(Not that it really hurt – I mean, I've been punched through walls, this was a walk-in-the-park by comparison).

It made me gasp and recoil. Astor smiled in victory as the ball started to slip into her hands. I was going to let go in that split-second before she grabbed me, but now I had suddenly changed my mind.

My heartbeat picked up, my grip tightened, tried to break away. My heartbeat was almost as loud as the shouting in my ears, filling up my head, blocking everything out, even my radar. _Just stop,_ I pleaded silently, but no one heard. _Stop it, you're too loud, it hurts! Stop, stop, stop!_

But Astor wouldn't let go, she just wouldn't let go...why wouldn't she let go?

LET GO OF ME.

And then I was seeing red.

All I heard was a shout, a scream, the sensation of something cracking beneath my grip, and the clanging of metal.

Next thing I knew, Astor was against the bleachers, curled up and clutching her arm, crying.

_Jiminy Christmas, she was crying_.

Everything was loud, echoing. I swayed on my feet, the ground feeling unsteady beneath me. The red haze was gone and I felt mostly normal, except for the part where I completely blanked out and now my high-school nemesis was on the floor, bawling her eyes out.

"Is she hurt...?" someone asked. "What did she do?"

"Did you see that...?" a girl whispered, but it was like a shout in my ear. "She just grabbed her..."

"Went totally psycho..."

"It's always the quiet ones..."

"Wait, what happened? I didn't see it!"

"What the hell is going on here?" Coach Bronson stormed in, breaking through the wall of students crowding in on the two of us. He stared at Astor on the ground, crying, then back at me with eyes widening in surprise, before going back to Astor, then back to me with a full on double take. Then he turned to the group at large, waving his arms back and forth, "All right, everyone, clear out! Back off, we need some air here! Can someone tell me what happened?"

I felt a hand on my arm, pulling me back, but I was too shocked to move. Did _I_ do that?

"Okay, Jimmy, you're fast, right?" Coach Bronson pointed at one of the boys, who went ramrod straight with the unexpected attention. "Go get the nurse. Sarah, go tell the secretary, we'll need to contact Astor's parents..."

"Amy, come on."

I felt another pull on my arm and relented. I followed the guide, my focus going in and out. _Was that me? Did I do that?_

The voices faded and the lighting changed - we were in the hallway now. I leaned against a locker, the metal's coolness seeping through my shirt. There was a chilly draft in here, from someone opening the door to outside. I rubbed my arms, the cold bringing some sense back into me.

"Hey, are you all right?" it was Peter, shaking me gently. "What happened back there?"

"I-I don't know," that was the truth. "I just...I got angry. I saw red. Then, next thing I knew, Astor's on the ground."

"You saw red?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, like in a movie," it was strange. I distinctly remembered that part - just a haze of red that veiled the world. I had become blind and all too aware at once. Like I was slipping backwards into oblivion and something burst forth in my stead.

And that's when I figured out what happened.

"I lost control," I whispered, so terrified of the thought that I could barely breathe. I could now recall the memory of my hand grabbing Astor's arm, the ball dropping away completely, her sudden gasp as my grip grinded her wrist bones together, the sensation of throwing my shoulder into her, slamming into the bleachers.

That crack in the shell, the loose rubble falling before the avalanche; when Astor decided to lunge at me, hurt me, that just burst the balloon filled with - with _something_ that had been there that I didn't know was still there. I knew, just then, that it had been there the entire time, just lurking under the surface, ready to break free. Just a surge of power blooming upwards, heat and rage and vindication, too fast and too sudden for me to stop. And it felt good, too - that was the worst part. Like I was releasing a pent-up energy that had been stored, suppressed, hidden until just the right moment. So dark, so intense that it almost knocked me off my feet.

"I thought it was over."

But it wasn't. I thought, after meeting Bruce, that it had ended, that I had overcome whatever Venom did to me, did to my mind. I thought I had gotten better.

I was wrong.

It just got worse. This had never happened to me before. I never lost control in public, as Amy, as myself. The nail-digging thing shouldn't have been enough to send me over the edge. Hell, I've taken worse beatings and never blacked out like this before. That shouldn't have happened.

...but it did.

I had been so sure things were good. That's what happens, I suppose. I was so confident in the matter that I couldn't see this coming. Bad things happen just when you least expect it.

"Maybe," Peter's brow furrowed and although he was trying to make the best of things, I knew what he was thinking the same as I. Venom. Whatever it did, it left lasting damage. "Maybe it's just a fluke. It's been a stressful week. And Astor's always getting on your nerves. This time, she just went too far."

From a realistic standpoint, Peter might have been right, if I didn't feel so wrong. It was probably the reasoning the teachers would go with - a bullied kid sick and tired of their situation, so they snap, lash out, and people get hurt. At least it was just Astor, though. For a bright side, it wasn't great, but considering my powers, others could have gotten hurt, too.

It's so nice to learn that you're a danger to society. People are really understanding of that, you know, by way of padded rooms and mental asylums.

I let Peter run with those thoughts, because I really wasn't in the state of mind to fully understand what was happening to me.

Thankfully, I hadn't been expelled on the spot. Since breaking other people's arms wasn't typical behavior for me, Principal Randall just had me apologize (sincerely) to Astor and her parents, promise to never do it again, and then assure them that I would be receiving proper punishment.

That just happened to be detention.

It could have been worse.

A lot worse.

Still, it didn't quell the urge to jump out the second-story window.

I had a lot of practice of hiding my emotions, so Mrs. Murphy was none the wiser to my internal thoughts. If they had an outward appearance, I imagined they'd look like a churning storm, with gray and purple clouds, thunder crackling, but no rain. The cloud just condensed, got bigger and darker, held onto the rain, even though it might just explode –

_Whoa, slow down._ I took a deep breath, trying to steady my rising heartbeat. I was panicking myself, getting all poetic like this. Clearly, Shakespeare was a bad influence.

"So let me explain to you what happens," Mrs. Murphy went on, drawing me back out of my reverie. "You will sit here, quietly with no music and no phones, for an hour and a half. Since you have nothing to entertain yourself with, I suggest doing any homework. I will not tolerate any sleepers."

_Damn_. Well, after she crossed off music privileges (ha, no still no cell phone here. Classic Amy), I thought I could get away with getting some beta waves going in my noggin, but clearly that wasn't going to happen. I just heaved a sigh and pulled out _Hamlet_ , the latest of my Shakespearean torture methods.

As soon as this was done, I was jumping out the window.


	2. Chapter 2: Sanctum Sanctorum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-Edit on 10/7/14.
> 
> Some things get better before they get worse.

**Chapter Two**

**Sanctum Sanctorum**

* * *

 

I wasn't kidding when I said I would jump out the window as soon as detention was over.

I waited until Mrs. Murphy left, then checked the ground below for any passerby. Affirming the area clear, I jumped four floors down into the alleyway, landing in a cloud of dirt. I ran off before any of my detention mates could realize I was outside before they were.

I stayed out until dark, going to the gym for my Judo warm-up before prowling the streets for trouble. After bashing some ugly heads together, I called it a day (since it got dark around 4 this time of the year and I was freezing) and made my way back to my temporary living arrangements.

For the past few weeks I've been going back and forth between Aunt May's house and the apartment, having crafted the latter into a sort of base of operations. Easier to hide and find privacy when I need it, closer than anyplace in Queens. I also don't have to worry about anyone going through my bedroom and finding something they shouldn't.

I had set up a cork board and created a diagram of everything I knew so far, with pieces of colored yarn to connect them. For example, my mother was the target, red yard connecting her to a label "White Rose", who was using her to get back at my father; another line, red, between the White Rose and the only picture I had of him, as a boy at a circus. A blue line, representing a relationship, sat between him and my mother – all together it created a triangle at the center of board, with many more pieces spanning outwards with their own branches. This was the center of my problems.

I knew so little of my father. Just that I looked like him, he had a connection to the White Rose. Maybe the reason my mom left him, raising me alone; I didn't know, she had never told me and I was never specific enough. He's been MIA for sixteen years, and apparently the White Rose wants him back. They used my mom to get him.

As far as I knew, it hadn't worked.

I was going up to check it again, having gone as my civilian identity because I had recently gotten word of a new landlord and I had to see him.

The old landlord was a nice old man named Charlie who sometimes forgot when to collect our rent. I didn't know what happened to him, or what to expect when I knocked on the office door in the lobby – but a giant brute of a man was definitely not it. A billow of smoke followed him, rising to the ceiling. The man had thick black hair, cropped close to his head, no neck and shoulders broad as a cello. He glared down at me from a crooked nose, once broken and healed out of place, healed pockmarks on his face from some mysterious bygone disease. He sneered down at me, showing nicotine yellow teeth, and asked in a raspy grunt: " _What do you want_?"

I jumped at the sight of him. I swallowed, unsure of how to respond, preoccupied by the sight of a table behind him, surrounded by men smoking cigars in suits, holding cards in their hands. They were all turned to face the door, watching me with inscrutable expressions on their faces. When the man at the door raised a greasy eyebrow, I quickly said, "Apartment 1003, you left a note?"

My voice was a little higher and squeakier than I meant it to be. The man huffed out of his nose like a bull letting off steam. He pulled at his green corduroy lapels, straightening his shoulders as he told me, "Oh, right. Rent's been increased to five hundred a month. So you owe that. And last month's payment didn't come in, the check bounced, so I need that too – You got one week to pay that back before I have to evict you."

"Whoa, what?" I gaped at him, blinking as though if I did it enough times, he might disappear like a mirage. The apartment had been kept up by the monthly checks from my mom's bank account, but I guess it ran out. _Only lasted for two months..._ "A grand? I can't get a whole grand in one week! Where am I supposed to get that much?"

The man shrugged, making a face and pulling out a cigar and lighting it. At the same time, I noticed the black metal of a gun in his waistband, a not-so-subtle warning. He told me, "Not my problem, doll. I don't give special treatment, everyone else has to pay, too. Consider yourself lucky I'm even giving you a second chance. I could've dumped your stuff on the street for missing November's payment. So you better get used to the new establishment, before I change my mind. _Capiche_?"

New establishment? What the hell did that mean? My eyes fell to the card players, who turned and whispered to one another. I didn't get a chance to ask before the man slammed the door in my face, I stood there like an idiot, staring at the new name on the office door: Luca Tomoni. The man with the gun.

Still in shock, I made my way upstairs. Despite the arrival of Luca Tomoni, the elevator still didn't work, so there were ten flights of stairs ahead of me, plenty of time to take in this new information. Or rather, a challenge.

Well, so much for my new secret HQ. But I had already decided it was too important to lose. Somehow I had to find a thousand bucks in the next seven days.

This was going to be _so much fun_.

Not.

The apartment was cold and dark when I entered. I saved money by not using too much heat or electricity. I didn't know what I'd do if I needed to pay _more_ than I already had before. Not using heat during December or January wasn't exactly preferable, but I had planned to make do with the piles of blankets my mother had stored up in her bedroom closet.

Or maybe just go back to Aunt May's, who had actual heating and a fire place and, like, _real food_ and people I could talk to.

I wasn't sure yet.

I set my backpack down, sighing. My breath formed a puff of steam in front of me. The door closing behind me as I moved forward, I checked the lights as I entered the kitchen. Three bulbs illuminated the dark space, creating stark shadows into the living room and hallway beyond. Alone in my island of light, I took an apple from the fridge (the only working appliance in the apartment), then a knife from a drawer as it opened on its own.

I took my time peeling the skin, using it to think about what I was going to do next. I wanted to call Peter and ask his opinion on the matter, but I didn't own a phone, and the one here hasn't worked since my mother's kidnappers cut the cords. Not to mention the homework I still had to do (I resigned myself to completing it after starting in detention). And then spending another afternoon with Mrs. Murphy tomorrow? I guess it was a bad idea to break Astor's arm.

Not that I meant to. Even if she _did_ kind of deserve it, in a way. Even Gwen accepted the fact that it was bound to happen, which was nice because I didn't want to tell her the truth.

My week was just getting better and better, wasn't it?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of movement. I spun around, throwing the knife where I felt the body pass by the couch, invisible in the darkness. But the knife sank into empty wall, the presence I felt just a second ago having disappeared as quickly as it came.

"Who's there?" I demanded, the knife flying back into my hand. "Show yourself!"

And out of the shadows stepped a tall, curly-haired form. An all-too-familiar voice said, "Hey, take it easy, dove. It's just me, remember? Or have you already forgotten?"

I swung the knife in his direction, the gleaming blade hovering in the air. I focused on him, although it was a little hard since he wasn't completely removed from the black behind him. "You're not welcome here, Smoke. Get out, now."

"What?" Smoke actually looked surprised, which was strange. I never gave him permission to be here. In fact, I had forgotten he even knew where I lived. Or one of the places, at least. "Why? I've been here before, and you didn't complain then."

"Yeah, because I was completely out of my mind," I snapped, the knife shuddering in response. A sudden fear took me; if Smoke has been here before, did he know my name? Did he know Mom's name? How much did he know about me? Not Falcon me, but _me_ me? "And the insanity defense isn't going to work here. Now, leave. Go!"

"You're not even going to say 'thank you'?" Smoke folded his arms across his chest, giving me a disapproving look as he said, "Tsk, tsk, dove. I thought a lady like you would have better manners. Besides, I wanted to see how you're doing."

"How I'm doing?" I demanded, almost spitting, wishing I had my helmet to cover it. He already knew what my face looked like but that didn't make me feel any less exposed. And maybe my suit, too, because civvies just weren't cutting it right now. I never felt lamer than in jeans and a marshmallow jacket. "How the hell do you think I'm doing? Fantastic, since you've been gone. And here you are, acting like nothing's changed, strutting around like you own the place. I haven't seen you since Thanksgiving! I have no idea what you've been up to, never seen or heard from you once. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Smoke seemed to realize I was seriously ticked, and not just mildly annoyed like I usually was. He took a step back (or however that translated when the bottom half of him was still strangely in shadow) and threw up his hands, giving me a long look as he said, "Hey, look, I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch, but you'd be surprised how much business I get during the Christmas season. How many things the citizens of New York City wanted me to steal? Business is starting to pick up again. It's all well and good but I didn't know you'd miss me so much. If I'd known, I would've gotten you something, too."

"Oh, shut up," I scowled, throwing down the knife. It's slightly dented pointy end dug into the floor and I turned on my heel, unable to look at him. I didn't miss him. I didn't! That was _so_ not what I meant. Did he really think that? "Teasing me isn't going to get you anywhere."

"So," Smoke took a step out of the darkness, arms extending like he was expecting a hug, and a hopeful smile on his face. "Am I forgiven?"

"No," I mumbled, throwing him an uncertain look over my shoulder. Honestly, I had been a little lonely. I felt kind of hurt Smoke hadn't seen me at all in the last few weeks. I had wondered if he had gotten bored of me, or turned back to a life of crime without looking back. I was actually kind of glad to see Smoke was still, well, Smoke. "But I really don't want you hanging out here. It's...it's really kind of private, okay?"

His arms dropped to his sides, hug offer rejected. Smoke seemed a little disappointed. "Oh, fine. You take the fun out of everything, you know. Though I suppose it's better than you blowing up buildings."

"Yeah, glad that's over," I went back for my apple, half peeled, and took a bite out of it, trying to sound upbeat even as my heart sank further. It wasn't over at all, was it? Then something else occurred to me. As Smoke bent down to pry the knife from the floor (it was stuck pretty tight), I said around a mouthful of fruit, "How do you know him, anyways?"

Still tugging on the wooden handle, Smoke looked up and gave me a look of confusion. "He who?"

"You know, the guy that was supposed to help me... The guy at the warehouse," I almost wanted to say his name, but I wasn't sure if Smoke was privy to that information. I decided to play it safe and keep Bruce's secret safe. "The one that saved me."

"For the record, _I_ saved you," Smoke corrected, finally deciding to phase the knife out of the floor instead of pulling it, then walked over and dropped it on the counter. He leaned against the corner, frowning at me. "If it weren't for me, and my wonderful collection of connections, we wouldn't be here talking about this right now. Not even your little normal friends could help. You still didn't say 'thank you' by the way."

I ignored that last part, and leveled my own gaze to his. "I asked first."

Smoke snorted, tossing his head like a child who didn't get his way. Then he muttered, "I met him at a bar once. He was the only one there not drinking, so I thought, 'hey, that's kind of weird,' and went over to talk to him, because that's what guys do. I even ordered him a beer, but he didn't drink any of it. Apparently the guy has real anger management issues, and alcohol just makes it worse. Seemed pretty chill though, for a guy the US Army is after."

I spit out my apple. "The _US Army_? Who the heck is he?"

"Don't know, wouldn't say," Smoke just shrugged like it didn't matter, but I could tell by the smug look on his face that he was pleased to have gotten a reaction out of me. He played it cool though, trying not to (visibly) soak in the attention I was giving him as he said, "He told me he had it under wraps, going sober for a couple months now. I felt bad for the guy, with no place to stay, so I helped him out, got him a place to hide. I check in every now and again, and the place is all right. At least, no cops have come round knocking. He might still be there, if that's what you really wanted to know."

He smirked at me, clearly figuring out what I was trying to get out him. I flushed and ducked my head, trying not to appear too guilty as I said, "Yeah, whatever. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer sometime. Maybe."

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

I stuck my tongue out of him, a sign of my superior maturity and wit. "And you keep coming back for more."

"I just can't help myself, it's a vicious cycle." Smoke winced, running a hand through his hair. He got up from the counter, shuddering all over as if shaking off a spider that got down his shirt. "Ugh, I gotta get out of here before all this hominess gets to me. Catch you later, dove."

Smoke turned to phase through the wall or something, but at the last moment held up a finger and spun back around, an object flying from his hand. I didn't even think to look before my hand rose to catch it, an instinctual move. I looked at the hunk of metal in my hand, impressed with my reflexes. If that had been Spider-Man, he would've ducked and the radio would've smashed to the ground. "What is it?"

"What do you think, sweetheart?" he smirked at me like I was being an idiot. I flipped the radio over, not quite sure why there were wires sticking out of the end until he said, "It's a police scanner. I thought you might like it – you know, to pick up your game a little. New York is an ever-changing place; it'll eat you alive if you can't keep up."

I frowned at him over the scanner in my hand, suspicious of Smoke's motives. There was no doubt in my mind that somewhere out there a NYPD cop car was missing its radio. I wasn't particularly fond of the idea of getting caught for having it. "...Why?"

Smoke just stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugging one shoulder and rolled his eyes like it was obvious and I shouldn't be asking. Still, I could see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. "Call it an early Christmas present."

He turned to leave once more. Smoke was half-way through the living room wall when I suddenly jumped forward and called, "Hey, thanks!"

Smoke halted, revolving around to look at me with half his chest sticking out from the wallpaper. He threw me a bewildered look, lips pulling down. "For what? The police scanner or me saving your life?"

I smiled at him. "Both."


	3. Requiescat in Pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I told you things were going to get worse.
> 
> Re-Edited as of 10/7/14.
> 
> [input requisite Assassin's Creed reference here]

**Chapter Three**

**Requiescat in Pace**

* * *

 

I was listening to the police scanner an hour later, thinking over the recent arrival of Smoke. I was sure at this point that he didn't know my name – if he had, he would've teased me, called me outright by my real name. Why would he waste the opportunity?

The noise from the scanner filled my bedroom with static and broken voices. Some calm, some shouting – but nothing suspicious. I was waiting for a crime committed by the White Rose. I wasn't sure how I would be able to tell, but hearing all these things happening at once reminded me of how chaotic New York could be. Sure, all the little grids may look neat and perfect, but it hid how disorganized its people were, how easy it could get lost here.

There were reporting's of Spider-Man every now and then, and in true Spidey style, he was there and gone before anyone could arrest him. Spider-Man had a better rep than I did, at least civilians weren't afraid of him. The police weren't too bothered by the idea of somehow managing to catch him, but they wouldn't come near Falcon unless they had heavy back-up on their side. Spider-Man tried to keep law enforcement and innocents from getting involved in his fights, actively got them out of trouble when he could, and even helped the police (though they wouldn't admit it). I, on the other hand, don't bother them as long as they don't bother me. White Rose was my personal business and I honestly didn't trust the NYPD.

The White Rose were bold, and getting even more so as time went on. Just over the past week they robbed a bank, held up three high-end restaurants and fundraisers with celebrities, and were rumored to be behind the failed assassination of a visiting senator – Helena Azarov, who promised New York to make it a safer place. I reserved my opinion on politicians until I saw them in action (which, admittedly, is rather slow-going even on a good week). I felt the same about the city's leader, Mayor Waters, a supporter of Helena and crime reducing but not a target of assassination. I feared what Kane said might be true: the White Rose had the mayor in their pocket, either through blackmail or bribe or full-on cooperation. There were so few authority figures I could put my trust on.

The White Rose was going back to 70's tactics – the age of when they were at their highest, New York at its lowest. Crime and chaos at an all time high, with dirty cops running the scene and good cops overworked and underpaid; a ripe playground for the rich and criminal, like the White Rose. I was sure the Big Man wouldn't mind this kind of paradise, either. I wondered if he was in on it, too. Was it really possible for the White Rose to take over the city again? How would they do it? More crime? Political corruption? Bribery and blackmail? Surely there were those too honest to succumb to them, those brave enough to stand up against them.

I had to assume there were dirty cops on the force. I would never tell this to Gwen, what with her father being Chief of Police and really the only guy I can actually trust on the force. If I asked him, would he deny it or add his own doubt?

" _Reporting a three-seventy-eight, a man with a gun at the Guggenheim, holding at least fifty people hostage, calling all nearby enforcements..._ "

In the midst of my reverie, I wasn't listening to the report until after the fact. I jumped when it finally hit me and I lunged for the scanner, turning up the volume and hoping I hadn't missed anything important.

" _Please be aware, he may be on alcohol or another substance, hostile and unreasonable. There is no vantage point on him from the outside, calling back-up. Gunshots heard at 7:03 PM, alert ambulances and SWAT for intervention..."_

I was out the window in less than ten seconds.

* * *

 

Falcon had only been to the Guggenheim once, and that was for a school field trip when she was in the fifth grade. She didn't remember much; just the shape of the building, the fact that it was in Upper East Side in a neighborhood she could only dream of living in, and that it was filled with weird looking art. Impressionism or something like that, she didn't know, she wasn't much of a painting person. Movies were more her medium.

Anyways, instead of the usual crowd of tourists on the sidewalk and streets around it, there was a fortified wall of cop cars, vans, ambulances, and other assorted vehicles. Sawhorses were set up to keep the onlookers at bay. Many of them were taking pictures or recording with their Smartphone's. The place was lit up with fog lights, pointed at the entrance. In her black suit and wings reflecting the darkness of the sky, she was almost invisible flying above.

Falcon spotted snipers stationed on the five nearest buildings and flew high to keep out of their range. Guns were easy enough to jam, but a bullet wasn't as easy to stop. Not only were they small, but bullets flew faster than she did – breaking the sound barrier was yet an accomplishment Falcon had to make, and definitely didn't have the reflexes to dodge. Bullets barely registered on her radar, they went so fast; she could only pick up on the trail they left behind. Until she figured out a way to block bullets effectively, Falcon decided it best to either be in range of a gun to jam it, or too far away to be hit.

To avoid getting shot on the way down, Falcon took a 90 degree dive directly above the building. No one expected the black and silver streak to appear and smash through the ceiling of the Guggenheim (superheroes were big fans of property damage), straight through the giant glass window and down several floors below.

Screams filled the air almost as soon as she entered – over two dozen people were crouched on the floor covering their heads as glass rained down. But they looked up when nothing hit them, when the floor wasn't littered from the destruction above. Falcon landed with a soft thump, raising her arms, wings sheathing, and halting the falling shards of glass without touching any of them.

There was a collective gasp, then absolute silence. Everyone stared at her, Falcon back at them. The lights had been turned off and several pieces of art were damaged by burns. She looked around, wondering if someone in here was the crazy man with the gun.

Falcon saw the muzzle flash just in time to duck.

_BLAM!_

The bullet imbedded itself into the wall behind her. More cries and a man stood up, shaky and dressed in shabby clothing. He looked to be a hobo, with his unkempt, scraggly beard, holey shoes, and an old coat that looked as though it hadn't been washed in months.

Falcon's nose picked up on the stench from him, as she stood twenty feet away, right through her helmet. Sometimes having super-enhanced senses left something to be desired.

She raised her hands in a complacent manner, hoping to convince the crazy man she meant no harm (although it was a total lie). Falcon would have attacked by now, but there were too many innocents, too many chances for collateral damage for her to act as efficiently as she wanted to. "Hey, relax, I'm not going to hurt you. Just put the gun down and..."

That's when Falcon noticed just what _type_ of gun he was holding. Not the typical black handgun a man might steal from a cop or store, but a shiny silver piece that looked like it just walked off a sci-fi movie set. "... _what is that_?"

"I'm not afraid of you!" the man shouted, his voice thin and wavering. Upon a closer look, she noticed that his eyes were red and extremely dilated. His grip was all over the place with his gun, the aim going back and forth between Falcon and the wall behind her. Was he high? "I'm the one w-with the gun! You have to do what I say!"

Falcon had watched enough CSI to know what to do in a hostage situation. "Look, you seem to be a decent guy – why don't you let these nice people go? They don't want anything to do with you."

Their captive audience looked back and forth between them. Some were focused on the floating glass, wondering what was going to happen. They were absolutely quiet, looking on in fear as Falcon tried to reason with this man. Were they afraid of her, too? Falcon knew there were a lot of people who didn't like her or her destructive methods, but did they honestly think she would hurt them?

The glass still hovered in the air like floating ornaments, spinning slowly. Falcon kept it as a back-up plan, deciding it could be an impromptu weapon if she needed it. Slowly, ever so slowly, she sidled forward, being sure not to alarm the man to the point of going off. Maybe she could get close and tackle him...

The man didn't seem to notice the glass. His focus was on Falcon, at least she was pretty sure. His eyes seemed glazed, uncertain. He waved his gun at her and said, "No, _you_ get out. I know what you can do, and you have no power over me! This gun is special, see, my friend gave it to me and he said it can't be jammed, not by accident or freaky voodoo powers!"

"What?" Falcon was bewildered by this statement, but found that, no, she could not find a safety on his gun. There were no bullets in his cartridge. It didn't feel like there was any solid piece of metal at all in his gun – exactly like the gun Moonscar used on her in November. "Who's this great friend of yours, huh? Is he White Rose?"

The man flinched at the name, like it was a physical blow. He grimaced and snapped, "You don't know anything! You're just stalling until the police come in here!"

Falcon had to admit, that was her Plan B. "What do you want, huh? Do you have any demands? Is the White Rose trying to get something in here?"

"N-no," the man looked even less sure than before. "I don't know what they want. They just told me to come here – and-and don't do whatever the police say! I'm supposed to send a message, that you can't escape the White Rose...they're everywhere! They know where you are, they know where you live, and they can turn your whole family into a memory the city will forget. No one gets out of here alive."

The crowd started to whimper. Several were already weeping silently. I saw two kids being shielded under the arms of a father. They're eyes were wide and terrified, and were constantly shushed by the man who watched Falcon with wary eyes. There were a few security guards in the crowd, trying to hide some people behind them. They were also watching Falcon, keeping not of her every move. No, none of them trusted her. But she was the lesser of two evils at the moment.

She was ten feet away now. Falcon wondered that if she put enough force in her lunge, if she could get him from this distance. She didn't want to chance it, but the man was not giving her a lot of options here. Falcon couldn't sense any incoming help on her radar, so decided to go on the offensive. "Yeah? Well, neither will you if you keep this up. Let me tell you, buddy, things are not going to end well if you don't drop that...that whatever it is you're holding. If you so much as hurt a single hair on anyone in this room, I make you regret it."

"No, no, this is not how it's supposed to happen!" the man cried, clutching his head and shaking it. He was shivering all over and Falcon hesitated as she drew closer. He looked honestly sick. She could see the veins on his hands now, a deep blood-red instead of the natural blue or green. Was that from the drugs he was on? "Nothing is working, nothing is working! I should never have gone to the White Rabbit..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Falcon asked, completely bewildered. The White Rabbit? This man had to be hallucinating.

"Don't eat the rosebuds!" the man cried to the ceiling, throwing his arm around in a wild spin. Several bright shots went off, hitting a column, then a sculpture of a woman behind the hostages. Shards of marble flew everywhere. "White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony – Quoth the raven, nevermore!"

"He's lost it!" someone shouted behind her. That was all the encouragement Falcon needed to throw herself at the man.

In his mad dance, he somehow managed to dodge her. But Falcon turned and grabbed his arm, twisting the wrist holding the gun. He grunted but held on, face turning red with the effort.

He slammed his full weight into Falcon to throw her off. Five inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, he would've overtaken her if not for Falcon's super strength to cut in and ground her to the spot. She yanked his arm down to keep it from going off in the direction of any civilian and a blast mark embedded itself into the floor.

The hobo slammed his other fist into the side of her helmet, so she headbutted him. The man stumbled back, reeling. She held onto his arm, trying to pry the gun from his iron grip, but was too late to realize that the barrel was now pointed _at_ her.

_BLAM!_

Sharp, hot pain exploded in her hip and Falcon released her grip in surprise. She gasped, looking down to see the ripped suit, exposed skin, bleeding wound. Just stepping back caused her extreme pain and she fell to one knee, unable to breath. _No, no_! Why was her body failing her now? _Get up, get up!_

Recovering surprisingly quickly, the man brought up his foot and slammed it into her chest. Falcon fell onto her back, the shooting pain in her leg and side making it almost impossible for her to stand up again. She closed her eyes, wincing in pain. What the hell kind of bullet was that?  
She opened her eyes and saw the barrel of the gun staring down at her. It would have been very James Bond-esque if the hobo wasn't swaying on his feet, blinking through teary eyes with pupils so big she couldn't tell what color his eyes were. In a slurred voice, he said, "The White Rose don't let loose ends hang."

Just before he was about to pull the trigger, there came a shout behind him. A security guard had stood up, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hey! Leave her alone!"

The hobo whipped around, startled by the disruption and letting his guard down for just a moment. It was enough. Falcon took advantage and threw both hands into the air. There came sound of glass whizzing through the air and the man cried out, swinging around as a dozen shards were slammed into his back. His aim went wide and a flash went off somewhere to the far left.

He fell backwards and Falcon thought it was over. Falcon picked herself up, falling on a heavy limp. Then a woman screamed.

"No!" she cried. "You killed him!"

She looked around, horrified to see someone else on the floor, the security guard who had saved her life at the last moment. The hobo's last shot hadn't been so stray after all. There was a deep, blooming red gouge in the guard's shoulder. He stared up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, a hand still on his empty Taser holster.

The woman, wearing a trench coat and fancy shoes, pointed a shaking finger at Falcon and shouted through teary eyes. "This is your fault! He's dead because of you!"

Falcon couldn't speak, too horrified herself to realize the truth. No, no, he's not dead, he's just...unconscious. No, she wouldn't let anyone die. She couldn't. If someone died because of her, then she could no longer call herself a hero. The city had every right to hate her now. Someone had died a pointless death for her and she didn't know what to do.

Outside, Falcon could hear policemen gathering, breaking down the front doors. A helicopter flew overhead, flashing a light down the hole she made in the ceiling. Instead of defending herself against the woman's accusations, the glaring and crying of the people around her, Falcon picked up the hobo's strange weapon.

"Isn't that for the police to find?" a man in a trilby asked, pointing at the weapon. Others had stood up, like him, were starting to move around, check friends and family. The incoming help were almost through the doors.

Falcon could barely look at any of them. "No. The police are way out of their depth."

"So, that's it?" the woman with the fancy purse demanded, tears streaked down her face. She wasn't quite crying, but she still gave Falcon a look of absolute hatred. "You're just going to leave? You're not going to even say sorry? What kind of so-called hero are you?"

Falcon couldn't look at the body, couldn't look at the woman, but she didn't hide the venom in her voice. "Don't try to fool me, lady. You never thought I was a hero in the first place, did you?"

The woman paused, frowned, then looked away, apparently unable to come up with a quick comeback.

Everyone in the room stared at her, apparently waiting for Falcon to say something else, maybe sum up the moment in something inspiring, something sad. But Falcon didn't have anything like that. She just stared at the shoes of the fallen guard, wondering if she could have done things differently, maybe someone didn't have to die. Was this really her fault? "This wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt."

It was more to herself than to the people there. They murmured amongst themselves, arguing what she said, what it meant. By the time SWAT blasted down the next door and entered the room, Falcon had left on her wings, leaving behind a terrified crowd of people and two men lying on the floor. She didn't check to see if the hostage-taker was dead, too. For what he had caused, he deserved it.

And maybe Falcon did, too.


	4. Mea Culpa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't like the occasional cameo? I've already got Bruce, now here's another one. Can you guess who it is? B)
> 
> Also, a small reference to Young Justice in this chapter. Love that show.
> 
> As of 10/7/14, has been re-edited.

**Chapter Four**

**Mea Culpa**

* * *

 

The pain in my hip was almost too much to bear.

At least flying kept the pressure off my legs, thereby my hips didn’t have to do any work. Each dip in the air, the cold breeze both jarred and numbed the pain. I blacked out three times in flight, the blood loss making my delirious. Entering the apartment, I had barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing in a heap across the tile.

I grabbed the edge of the tub and pulled myself to sitting position. My leg was warm and sticky with blood and in my rushed attempt to pull my suit off, I just made it harder. It was as snug as a wetsuit and took some yanks to get the waist over my wider hips. There was a singed, jagged hole where the blast had hit me. I had dropped the stolen gun somewhere in my room when I had entered, probably on the floor where I left my helmet behind.

Hair was sticking to my face, too warm with sweat. My breath was ragged and my hands shaky as I tried to gauge the severity of my wound. The man had missed the bone and the wound was already starting to heal – the bleeding had all but stopped now.

The pain was still in full force, though. I tried to sense the bullet somewhere inside, but I felt nothing on my radar. What the hell did that gun shoot if it wasn’t a bullet? Where had it come from, how did the White Rose get it? Who made it?

I had so many questions but I falling dangerously close to the edge of consciousness. Fighting to stay awake, all I could see behind my eyelids were the faces of those hostages before I left: Suspicion, anger, fear.

Disgust.

 

* * *

 

 

I woke up later that night with a sore hip an empty stomach. I saw my hands hand how they were covered in dry blood. There was a brief moment of alarm before I remembered what happened, that this blood was my own, not anyone else’s. My wound had sealed itself while I was unconscious, in a dreamless sleep.

My hip had healed into a bruised and ugly scar, like a comet exploding. My healing capacity was certainly helpful, life-saving even, but not perfect. I was always left with reminders of my mistakes. My knuckles were callused from many fights and I had scars to match the corresponding sewn patches on my suit. I still had the scar on my lip from the first time I save Oriole Kane’s life, in an alley fighting off a gunman. The pure, unblemished skin I was granted after getting dosed with Gray Matter had since been marred and given history.

I was hungry but felt too sick to eat. I saw that dead man’s face every time I closed my eyes, couldn’t push it from my mind. It was stuck there, as though to remind me of my mistakes, that I was to blame, I was guilty of murdering the man who saved my life. I didn’t even know his name. Did he have a family? What did they think, what were they going through right now? He was young enough to have kids. What would their mother tell them?

I started to cry. Hard, uncontrollable crying, that wracked my chest and made my sides hurt. I scared myself in being unable to stop, and I wondered if I kept going, would I run out of tears and dry up like a dead husk?

I didn’t know what time it was. I still had school the next morning, but I didn’t plan on going. I wanted to know who that man was, if he was going to get a funeral. Should I go? I didn’t think they would allow strange girls to enter someone else’s funeral...maybe I could watch from afar. I wanted to see who his family was, who I hurt.

I eventually made myself get up and find my laptop – borrowed from the school so long as I didn’t break anything. I hunkered down in my bedroom, pulling the sheets over my head in a makeshift tent. Using the free wi-fi from a nearby Starbucks, I began to shifting through various articles of the Guggenheim attack.

There was a video of the eleven o’clock news report. It had sparse information, but filled in what I didn’t already know.

The anchorwoman spoke with a serious tone, a picture of the Guggenheim entrance, filled with cop cars and exiting hostages, to her right, taking up a quarter of the screen. “ _Tonight, at 7:13, a homeless man – whose identity is being held by the police – broke through the ticket line at the Guggenheim, brandishing a gun and taking hostage everyone inside the museum. NYPD responded quickly but were unable to interact with the hostage-taker, who did not have a phone nor had any demands for ransom. The NYPD were planning to sneak in from the roof when Falcon, the city’s one of two crime vigilantes, broke in and neutralized the threat, but not before a security guard was killed in the ensuing fight. The guard, 32-year-old Franklin Koppel, was reportedly trying to distract the gunman from killing Falcon; in turn sacrificing his own life when the gunman turned his weapon on Koppel. Falcon fled the scene shortly after, but not before taking the man’s weapon with her. This gun, described to be made of a silver metal and firing off ‘blasts of light’, was what had killed Koppel and what the gunman used to terrorize his hostages. Police are investigating her involvement, saying she has become an obstruction to justice by taking away key evidence from an active crime scene, and question where her loyalties lie. Police have yet to establish contact with the so-called hero, and for now deal with the gunman, who sustained major back injuries and blood loss from Falcon’s glass attack, but is currently in stable condition at Bellevue hospital._ ”

I thought she was going to transition to another story, but the newswoman surprised me when she continued with, “ _According to our sources, the gunman was on a substance called Rosebud when he attacked the Guggenheim. Our police expert says that this is a new hallucinogen that has appeared just a few weeks ago on the streets and has ravaged anyone who has used it. Rosebuds, called that for their unique shape and color – that of a red rose flower – are powerful drugs that cause extreme mania, hearing and sight loss, hostility and aggression, severely impairs decision making, as well as turns the skin a deep scarlet hue. The police are in the process of finding out how it is distributed, although they do believe it has been imported from Italy. It is recommended that if you ever come across someone who has these symptoms, it is best to stay away and not engage, otherwise you might cause serious harm to yourself, the attacker, and anyone else in the vicinity_.”

So, there was a mysterious drug that not only turned its users into raving lunatics, but also so elusive that the cops can’t even find who’s selling it? Fantastic.

There was a flicker of movement at the edge of my radar. I looked up, shifting the cover off my head. Someone was outside the building, against the wall.

A came a tap at the window. It opened without me needing to touch it – in slid a rather cold-looking boy in red and blue spandex. When he took off his mask, I saw that his nose was red and eyebrows frosted white. He looked like he had taken a dunk into the Hudson.

“Peter, are you all right?” I asked, wondering just what the hell he had been doing.

“You know, I could ask you the same question.” Peter said, shaking his head and sending a mist of droplets into the air. “Have you been crying?”

My hand flew to my face. It was dry – my eyes must still be red and puffy. I looked down at the bed covers, hoping he couldn’t read my expression. “A little. I guess you’ve heard by now, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah. I wanted to see how you were doing.” Peter sat down at my desk, spinning in the seat to face me. His face was calm but carefully guarded, as though he were afraid I might do something crazy at any moment. I guess he had a right to be worried – my powers weren’t their most stable when my emotions were in disarray. “I heard you got hurt. What kind of gun did he have?”

“I don’t know.” I said, rubbing the newly formed scar on my hip. It was bumpy and sore, slightly less bruised. My stomach grumbled, asking for more calories so my body could continue the healing process without burning through the last of my energy. “I healed. The gun – I’ve only seen it once before, and it was in the hands of a White Rose hitman.”

“That’s who you think is behind this.” Peter said. It wasn’t a question. My suspicion was not something I bothered to hide – It just made everything worse when I was right. “Why did you take the gun?”

The gun was somewhere in the mess of my room. I found it again on my radar and let it drift from under my bed and into the air between us. I didn’t want to touch it – just let it rotate slowly in the air between us. Peter squinted, reaching out a finger to feel the metal. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“I can’t stop it.” I told him, focusing on the gun instead of his face. If I saw human emotion, an expression that would remind me of the faces in the Guggenheim, I wasn’t sure if I could keep myself together. Already my voice was starting to shake – another crying session about to break through. “It’s not like a regular gun – I can’t jam it, I can’t keep the bullets from flying. I don’t even think it _has_ bullets.”

“What do you mean?”  
  
To demonstrate, I pointed the gun at an old science project on one of my shelves. One of those 3-D renditions of a chemical’s atomic structure. Oxygen, maybe, or nitrogen, I couldn’t remember.

 _ZZIIISH!_ The gun went off, lighting up the room with its blast, and vaporized the project.

“Whoa,” Peter jolted, nearly stood in his chair, eyes wide. “It’s like straight out of a movie.”

“A bad one, where the good guys die,” I muttered, letting the gun clatter to the floor. I scowled at the glowing computer screen. “How can I keep the White Rose from winning if I can’t even protect the people they’re trying to kill?”

“It’s not over yet, Amy,” he said, and the laptop was whipped off my lap with a sharp _Thwip!_ Peter took the laptop, fingers skittering across the keys like spiders trying to tap dance. “Who’s going to be left to stop them if you give up? If what you say is true, and the White Rose have the city council in their pocket, then regular authorities aren’t going to cut it anymore. Here, look at this.”

He spun the laptop around the top of the chair so the screen faced me. On it was a YouTube video set to play, a guy speaking to his camera in a vlog post. “ _Yo, this is your friendly neighborhood evening Superhero channel. I’m your host, Danny, and this is the Falcon Watch._ ”

“Are you kidding me?” I stood up from the bed to peer closer at this boy, who couldn’t have been much older than a college kid, grinning into his camera like he was talking about the VMA’s, not a terrifying vigilante. “People vlog about me?”

“About _us_ ,” Peter rectified, beaming at her. He pointed at the column of other related videos to the right of the screen, showing different faces with similar titles. Half were about Spider-Man, if not myself. “When the _Bugle_ started reporting nothing but how evil we were, these guys took it upon themselves to share the real story. They watch us and tell everyone the truth – the White Rose can’t fight the Internet, can they?”

“Yeah, but it’s the Internet,” I said, throwing up my hands. How could a couple vloggers really make a difference? It seemed so intangible, so silly that I didn’t understand why Peter saw this as a good thing. “It’s like having an imaginary friend – you can’t touch it, it can’t physically interact with the real world. I mean, it’s not people actually _care_ , do they?”

“Just look at how much views this Danny guy has,” Peter scrolled down the webpage to list the views beneath the video. The number was in the millions. “And he’s not even the most popular one. I just think he does better with giving both sides of the story – and he uses all my photos, which is great publicity – and reads tons of comic books.”

“We aren’t in a comic book.” I told him.

“You think in TV, he thinks in comic books, does it really make a difference?” Peter shot back and I slumped on the bed, realizing he had a point. Peter smirked a little, saying, “Not like there’s anything wrong with that. But you have no idea how many people really support us, Amy. Just because they’re not singing your praises on the news or calling you a hero in the papers doesn’t mean no one thinks so. The Internet has a bigger base than either the _Bugle_ or the _New York Nightly_ has. The White Rose aren’t just fighting you, they’re fighting them, too.”

Millions of people watching, waiting, judging. As the video continued to play, Danny recounted a robbery bust I did a couple months ago. This was an older post, but no less relevant. “ _Despite what the_ Bugle _like to complain about, no one was actually hurt when Falcon intervened...well, except for the bad guys, but that’s what happens when you wave guns at chicks with PK, kiddies. I bet Falcon was just holding back, too. If you recall, she once tore apart an entire block with a single scream. A single scream, people! She could’ve ripped those guys to shreds if she wanted, but guess what? She didn’t. Sure, maybe that bank doesn’t have hero insurance, but I’m sure they’d rather pay for those broken windows and desks than have to pay back all those people who lost their money._ ”

I smiled a little, forgetting that one of my meltdowns hadn’t really gone as unnoticed as I thought it had. I planted my hand on my chin, starting to feel better. Just a little. I said, “Heh, I forgot about that. Are there other heroes besides us?”

“Not really,” Peter shrugged, closing the laptop lid and tossing it back to me. I caught it as he said, “For the five boroughs, it’s just us. If there are others out there, they’re not using names, staying out of the limelight by being completely anonymous.”

“Lucky them,” I mumbled, envying whatever hero out there was managing to stay out of sight. Having a name and reputation was all well and good, but that meant people also had someone to blame. I guess it wasn’t always unwarranted. “You wouldn’t happen to know what Rosebud is, do you?”

“I heard it was a new drug on the streets, like crack on steroids or something,” Peter said, frowning at the subject changed. He leaned into the chair, studying her face as if he could somehow guess what she was getting at. “Why? Is that what the gunman was on?”

“If the White Rose is dishing out both super-weapons _and_ crazy drugs to just random people on the street,” I told him. “Then they’re starting to create chaos in a way that scatters the police force into trying to contain all these disturbances. But that’s just them creating a distraction, so the police will be too busy to attacking the branches when instead they should be killing the roots. I have to find out how they’re distributing Rosebuds and blast guns without the police catching them. Got any helpful suggestions?”

“If it’s not your average drug dealer, then White Rose must be doing it right under their noses,” Peter scratched his chin, pondering the thought. I didn’t really expect him to give me a great answer; it wasn’t like either of us were experts at sting operations or something. “I mean, how would a homeless man get his hands on it? How would a soccer mom suddenly OD on hallucinogens when she never had substance abuse problems before in her life?”

It sounded like a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. There was a brief bought of silence between us. I studied my feet before saying, “Remember how Harry was using? He got the Globulin Green because it was easy to get, he could always find more when he needed to. What if it’s the same thing here?”

“What, you mean getting the drugs?” Peter shook his head, apparently not understanding what I was trying to get at. He held a hand up in confusion. “Where could a soccer mom, accidentally or not, get easy access to drugs that wouldn’t involve a drug dealer? Unless someone snuck it into her food or something...”

That gave me an idea. “Stores. Grocery stores, pharmacies, gas stations. You think the White Rose might be selling it through otherwise legitimate establishments?”

“That was a lot of long words,” Peter squinted at me like he thought I was trying too hard to sound smart. “But that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. A great way to hide your business under the guise of another one that the police wouldn’t suspect. Real sneaky.” Peter pulled back the sleeve of his suit and stared at his watch. “Speaking of sneaking, I have to go home before Aunt May notices I’m gone. You sure you want to stay here? She’s getting worried. I think she’s afraid you’ll starve to death.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” I smiled weakly, but shook my head all the same. “I really need to be by myself for a while. Had a rough night tonight?”

“Let’s just say I’m not a big fan of magicians who wear giant fishbowls on their heads,” Peter said wryly before standing up and pulling his mask back on. He gave me a quick salute before climbing out the window and swinging away into the January night.

I stared at my computer, closed, for a while before forcing myself to open it again. I knew I should get some sleep, but I wanted to know everything about Franklin Koppel as I could. There was very little outside the sparse news reports and a Facebook page I wasn’t allowed access to. I subscribed to Danny’s superhero vlog, deciding that maybe I needed a bit of a morale boost right now. I watched some of his older videos, wondering if there really were people out there who believed in my cause, although no one’s guesses were right. Some people thought I was like Spider-Man and was just defending the people of the city. Others thought I had a vendetta, which was pretty close – Danny even made a scarily accurate assumption that my motivation lied somewhere in the pain of a loved one, that someone I cared about got hurt because of the crime in New York and this is my reaction.

So tired I could barely move, I fell asleep sitting up.

           

* * *

 

 

Franklin Koppel’s funeral was held on a Friday, less than forty-eight hours after his death. It snowed that day, washing out the color as the procession made their way to the graveyard with the casket.

She watched from afar, keeping her distance to avoid conflict. It didn’t feel right to show her face at the funeral of a man she had let die; she didn’t want them to think she was some sort of morbid freak, like serial killers who attended the funerals of their victims. They couldn’t see her face anyways, so what would they think if they saw her there? That she was going to finish off the rest of the family, that the terror had only just started to begin. Did they know she felt guilty, did they blame her for everything that happened?

Falcon wished she could divine these answers from the ceremony but if that’s what the family and friends of Koppel thought, then they kept it to themselves. She spotted his wife, a woman in black with two little boys holding on to either of her hands. One looked to be barely five years old, the other closer to ten or eleven. She was sixteen when she lost her mother, at an age and with the ability to make the worst of it. Falcon wouldn’t be here right now if the White Rose hadn’t decided to take away her mother. What would happen to those boys, who would they grow up to be? She hoped they never turned out like her.

At one point, she had to duck down because she thought someone had spotted her. The older of two sons had looked up to the sky, as if curious about the falling flakes. He must’ve spotted her black form at the corner of an apartment complex, then pointed and said something too far away to hear to his mother.

If the mother saw Falcon, she didn’t do anything about. When Falcon peeked out again, the mother was standing over the hole in the ground and letting a red rose drop inside. The sons followed her actions, the youngest biting his mittens and clinging to her leg. Did he even understand what was happening? Did he know who was in that coffin six feet below?

Falcon flew off soon after people left in their black cars, leaving behind a trail of footsteps in the smooth layer of snow behind them. As soon as the last car left and the last piece of dirt padded down in front of the gravestone, Falcon dropped to the ground, right were the mother stood some time before.

The groundskeeper cried out and dropped his shovel at her sudden appearance. With an incoherent whimper, he ran off, nearly tripping in the thick snow. Falcon ignored him, looking down at the marble gravestone in front of her.

It was simple marble. Too simple, she thought. Why weren’t there any decorations, any unique flourishes that said this man was special, that he died a hero? Even his inscription was kept short and to the point:

_Franklin Koppel_

_1983-2013_

_Beloved Son, Husband, Father._

“That’s it?” she muttered to herself. “How can that be it?”

“Is there something wrong, miss?” said a voice behind her that made Falcon whip around in surprise.

The cemetery was so cold, so quiet and still that she didn’t wasn’t expecting someone to still be here, somehow. The man, with neatly groomed red hair, wore a black suit and carried a white cane. Opaque glasses covered his face and he smiled, if sadly, at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you find something upsetting?”

“I...” Falcon stared at the man – was he blind? Probably why he wasn’t giving her a dirty look right now, what people usually did when they recognized her – before turning back to the gravestone and clenching her jaw, telling herself she shouldn’t be talking to anyone, and certainly not here, out in the open. Why couldn’t she just pretend he didn’t exist, like she used to with people who got too close? “It...it doesn’t say much. I thought it would say more about him.”

“Oh,” the blind man nodded like he understood, coming to stand beside her at the gravesite, swinging the cane back and forth so he didn’t trip on anything. “Did you know him well?”

She glanced at him, wondering if he was joking. The man just returned the look with an inscrutable expression on his face. It was rather disconcerting, to meet the gaze of a blind man, who seemed to see far more than he actually could.

But that was a crazy idea. He was just another civilian with no idea who he was talking to. Falcon had left her scrambler off, so it was perhaps made it even more difficult for the man to realize who he was talking to. She said, “No. I – he saved my life. I thought...I guess, I thought he deserved better. This shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. He should be with his family, not down there all alone with-without...”

Falcon’s voice started to crack and she clamped her mouth shut, trying to swallow that lump in her throat. She made to wipe at her eyes but her hand just brushed against her helmet ineffectively. She made a noise of frustration, her hands turning into fists as she kicked at the snow. Some splattered on the headstone and she immediately felt bad for acting out, particularly in front of this man. Was he judging her right now? Did he think her immature and stupid?

“Have you lost someone close to you?” the man asked as though nothing happened.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Falcon demanded, managing to get her voice back under control and only intoning the emotions she wanted it to.

The man just sighed and shrugged his shoulders, saying, “Sometimes we feel guilt over the things we cannot control. Sometimes we’re blamed for the things that couldn’t be helped. And then when this guilt, this grief becomes too much, it comes out in a way that maybe is misunderstood by others. It’s only natural to feel this way.”

Falcon let this sink in for a second. No, she wasn’t stupid, she knew she wasn’t the only person who lost someone she cared about. Maybe she shouldn’t even be complaining – she didn’t have the right to. Her mother was still alive out there, somewhere, a chance of returning. Those boys didn’t have that chance. They were never going to see their father again. Eventually, she asked, “Do they hate me? Do they wish it was me instead of him that should have died?”

“Would it matter?” the blind man replied. This answer only frustrated her and she made to snap at him for his unhelpfulness, but he raised a hand for patience, apparently predicting her protest and continued, “Perhaps you should consider if it’s possible if you can forgive yourself before you ask forgiveness from someone else. If you cannot accept it from them, then the effort will mean nothing. If you are not careful, this guilt you feel can quickly turn into a thirst for revenge.”

“Are you going to tell me to just ‘turn a blind eye’ next?” Falcon scoffed, tossing her head in derision, not in the mood for political correctness. If this man expected her to just let Koppel’s death go as a mere mistake, he had another thing coming. She jabbed a finger at the grave marker, “Koppel not only didn’t deserve this, but it wasn’t an accident, either. Somebody gave that homeless man a gun, somebody wanted him to go on and hurt others. I wish I could have stopped him in time, but now it’s too late. That man might be facing trials but the people behind this are getting off scot-free, with no punishment whatsoever. If you expect me to forgive _that_ , then I guess you don’t think Koppel deserves justice for his death.”

The blind man didn’t waver during this speech. It made Falcon even angrier – didn’t he react to _anything_? What did it take to make this guy _do_ something? But the man just tilted his head and asked, “Why do you think I’m here for?”

“Um,” Falcon did a double take, not expecting that. “Because you’re... family?”

“Try again.”

“I-I don’t...” Falcon gave this man an odd look, trying to figure out what she missed with this guy. His suit was nice, in fact, but it wasn’t a tuxedo, not something one would typically wear to a funeral. “I don’t know, a doctor?”

“Try lawyer,” the man replied, a smile forming on his lips. “I’m representing the Koppel family in the following trials.”

“I didn’t know they could afford lawyers.” The Koppel family hadn’t appeared particularly wealthy from what she had seen of them.

“I’m working pro bono,” the lawyer said with a shrug, like not getting paid was no big deal. _How_? Falcon would kill for a decent paycheck (well, not really, but come on). “I like to help those who wouldn’t get a voice otherwise.”

“Well, aren’t you an angel,” Falcon muttered under her breath. A handicapped lawyer working out of the goodness of his own heart seemed a lot more heroic than a vigilante who flew around busting faces and getting people killed.

“I can assure you, I’ll do my best to ensure the Koppel’s get the justice they deserve,” the man assured her. “I won’t let the White Rose get away with this.”

Falcon gazed at the lawyer in surprise. She didn’t even recall bringing up the White Rose. He knew? He sounded like he meant it, not in the politician’s way to appease the people, but because he honestly wanted the White Rose to get their due. It made her smile. “That’s...that’s good to hear.”

“It must be nice not feel so alone,” the man remarked, giving her a look that made Falcon feel tingly all over. Goddamn, how did he do it? Was he really blind? Because it sure as hell felt like he was looking straight at her. “You’ve got spirit, miss, but don’t let it get out of control. I can’t legally advise any action that isn’t condoned by justice system.”  
            “I’ll try not to get caught.” Falcon surmised, earning a grin from the lawyer. She knew it was time to leave - she had overstayed her welcome. As she ruffled out her wings, she turned to the lawyer and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Murdoch, attorney-at-law.” The man replied, holding out a hand in her direction (again, so accurate - maybe this was normal and Falcon didn’t know enough blind people), which she hesitantly took in her gloved hand. “When you get the chance, I suggest you look me up in Hell’s Kitchen. That’s where my office is.”

“Hell’s Kitchen, huh?” Falcon asked, a bit pleased to find out a guy with interests in line with hers also happened to live in the same neighborhood. “I might just take you up on that offer. Hopefully, I won’t have to.”

“I won’t try to guess what that means,” the man replied, starting to turn away. He tugged on his lapels, gave her a short bow of the head as a goodbye. “Have a good evening, miss.”

Falcon watched as he left in silence. A part of her was surprised when he didn’t hail a cab or get into a car. Was he really going to walk all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen from here? Or maybe he lived somewhere else.

Right now, it didn’t matter. She looked down, reading Koppel’s inscription once more. He deserved so much better than this.

 

* * *

 

 

            She landed on top of an apartment building in Jersey City, all the way across the bay from her hometown. Falcon had never patrolled here before, and wasn’t exactly considering it, either. The five boroughs were hard enough to cover, even if she did have Spider-Man for help.

Finding the boy hadn’t been too hard. He had a very active online social life, and a Facebook page she could readily access. It took her barely three minutes to fly over and locate his house from high up, where the streets were mere lines on the ground. Instead of going inside the building, she dropped down the fire escape, checking the windows around the building, until she found the one she was looking for.

It took the boy a full ten minutes to finally notice her from the glowing screen of his computer. The kid had only glanced at the window in passing, but did a double take when he saw Falcon standing outside his window, on the fire escape.

Danny flipped out, nearly falling out of his chair, hands flying around. He looked around, perhaps wondering if this was some sort of prank. But Falcon didn’t move from her position – she waited for him to open the window of his own volition. That way, he’d probably be less intimated, as opposed to Falcon just letting herself in with no permission.

Looking half-ready to run, Danny took a full minute to decide what to do before finally approaching the window and pushing it open. In hindsight, Falcon didn’t blame him. Danny wasn’t very imposing – big eyes, curly blond hair, and the physique of pencil, he reminded her of Peter before the spider bite. Maybe he got bullied, now or in the past – and was probably hesitant to let mean-looking people into his room.

To her, he asked, “Are you...are you the real thing?”

“What do you think?” Falcon asked, and to prove her point, she waved her hand, and the window slammed shut. The boy jumped back, alarmed, and stayed that way even after Falcon opened the window again. “Can I come in?”           

“Uh,” Danny blinked. “...sure.”

The window wasn’t particularly large, but Falcon was small and she only had to bend down to get herself inside. It was nice and warm in here, a pleasant change to the winter outside. It occurred to her that maybe letting in the cold air was a bad idea, and closed the window again.        Looking at the boy, she said, “I want to talk to you.”

“Oh, god, it’s about the videos, isn’t it?” Danny said, flopping on his bed, weak with defeat. “It’s always the videos. Please don’t kill me, I didn’t mean any harm –”

She held up a hand and he clamped his mouth shut.

“No – I mean, yes,” Falcon stuttered, then got frustrated with herself. She couldn’t look like a bumbling, indecisive idiot to this kid, she had to be determined! “I mean...” taking a deep breath, she collected her thoughts before saying, “I’ve watched them. I value your opinion. You’re a fair and unbiased reporter, unlike the people on TV. And I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah, anything,” Danny relaxed at the praise, actually looking pleased. “Whatever you want.”

“Good,” Falcon paused, trying to think of the best way to phrase her question, how to put it into context. “A few days ago...a man died. Killed. Hit by a bullet I deflected. And I just feel like...if I hadn’t been there, he might still be alive. That – that if I hadn’t gotten involved, things might have turned out better. That it was my fault it happened.”  
            Danny stared at her for a long moment. She didn’t think she had to name the event she was talking about – it was all over the news, and it was likely he had heard plenty. He opened his mouth, paused, then said, “Um, I’m not hearing the question.”

“I want to know what you think!” Falcon said, throwing her arms out like it was obvious. It _was_ obvious, she just said she valued his opinion. That meant she wanted to hear what he had to say about it! “You haven’t posted a video in three days. I figured the next one would be about...that. You know. I was afraid...”

“Afraid of what?” the kid asked when she didn’t finish, leaning forward with eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Afraid you’d hate me.” Falcon admitted with a deep sigh. “That everyone would hate me. Well, more than before, at least. A legitimate reason to quit.”

“No!” Danny said so abruptly that it made her jump. She stared at him as he got up, slid into his rolling chair, and swung over to his desk, typing madly on the keyboard. “No way! You have to stay on the streets!”

As reassuring as that was, it still left a lot to be answered. “Why? People seem to think that crimes would be better handled if I weren’t involved, so why continue? I know they think I’m in it for myself, but I’m not. I want to protect people, but if they don’t feel protected, then I’m not doing my job.”

“But you _are_ ,” Danny said, frowning at her. He brought up his internet browser, was typing something into the search engine. “Look, Falcon, you and Spider-Man are literally the only two people out there who can stop what the police can’t. Things that go unnoticed, unsolved, unpunished. The police can’t be everywhere, and they can’t fight like you can, they can’t deal with the bigger dangers out there. Not without the military – and let’s be honest, they aren’t known for their speed.”

“But someone _died_ because of me,” Falcon said. The voice scrambler was grating on her nerves, so she shut it off and spoke in her normal voice instead. “How do I reconcile that with what I do? With how people see me?”

She sounded weak, vulnerable, to the point she almost regretted turning the machine off. But Danny gave her a wide-eyed, inscrutable look. He didn’t seem amused or derisive. She expected a flippant comment, but instead she got:    

“You...you sound a lot younger than I thought you’d be.”

Falcon just looked at him, having nothing to say.

Danny, apparently confused by this revelation, averted his gaze before going back to his computer. He was bringing up news articles about the incident in the museum. Danny cleared his throat and said, “Erm, this one has an interview with the hostage negotiator. He said that most situations he deals with are with scared people who want something – or just need to calm down – but because the man with the gun was high on that-that Rosebud stuff, so paranoid and aggressive, that there was no way he could be reasoned with. He didn’t have a plan, he wasn’t there for money or retribution. He was a guy out of his mind and usually they’d use a sniper to take him out, but because of the location no one could get a good angle on him. If you hadn’t gotten involved...well, a lot more people could be dead.”

“The point is...” he took a deep breath, turning back to Falcon. He couldn’t quite look at her, but in fact focused on the corner of his bed, deep in thought. “The point is that no one is perfect. You can’t save everybody, Falcon. You can try, but you can’t. Please don’t hurt me for saying that, but I think it’s the truth. You tried your best and, honestly, the other guy died doing what he was trained to do. He might not have needed you to take that gunman down. He might have died anyway –”

Falcon stiffened and had almost punched him for that. But she held herself back, only let loose a twitch of movement.

Danny jumped back, panicked, his hands shooting into the air in the gesture of surrender. “Sorry, I’m sorry! Not the right thing to say, I get it!” he paused, testing the waters to see if Falcon might do something violent, but when she remained silent and unmoving, he continued at a slightly more confident rate, “But I’m a realist, and that’s what I think.”

“Great,” she muttered, letting her arms hang at her side. This didn’t exactly make her feel better. “So even if I hadn’t gone, he’d be dead and I’d still blame myself for not being able to save him.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the boy said with a shrug, his wisdom spent. “I guess you can put it this way: It could have been worse. It could always be worse.”

“Let’s not tempt fate,” Falcon muttered. It wasn’t what she hoped it would be – although since a man died, she wasn’t sure what exactly kind of uplifting message she was hoping to get, unless it was miraculously discovered that the security guard was actually a serial killer or something that might justify his death.

But that never happened.

“Um, before you go,” Falcon had just turned around to leave when Danny piped up behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, at the nervous looking guy. “Would it be cool if I took a picture with you?”

Falcon almost thought he was joking, and let out a strangled laugh. “...W-what?”

“You know,” suddenly Danny was completely red, all the way to his ears. He tugged on his shirt collar, pulling an awkward smile. “My fans would love it if they saw us together. And, you know, it’ll make me legit.”

“Uh,” Falcon considered it for a brief second. She almost gave it, thinking it might be a thanks for his help, but she quickly realized it would be a bad idea. “I don’t think so, D-Man. I don’t have to tell you that I’ve got a lot of enemies. And the White Rose won’t consider your total page views when they decide to off you for being on my side. Or maybe they’ll plant Rosebud in your locker and frame you for drug possession.”     

“My locker?” Danny scoffed, looking offended. “Falcon, I’m in _college_.”

“Oh,” Falcon said, wondering if that was an insult on its own. “You, uh, look young for your age.”

“What? Come on!” the guy did not appreciate being underestimated - or something. He crossed his arms, muttering, “This is why nobody takes me seriously.”

“Maybe you should try wearing a mask,” Falcon suggested, trying not to sound too amused. Her mood hadn’t been that great for a little bit - it felt strange to laugh again. “I heard it does wonders for the self-conscious type.”

“Is that what it is?” Danny asked, a wry smile growing on his face. He, too, seemed surprised by Falcon’s sense of humor. She was no Spider-Man, but at least she had sarcasm on her side. “Hey, will I ever see you again? I mean, besides on the news?”

“I don’t know,” Falcon said with a shrug, turning back to the window and opening it. She gave an honest answer, or at least an accurate one. “If I have another moral crisis, I’ll let you know. Tell you what, though,”

She pulled something from her glove and tossed it to Danny. “Souvenir.”

Danny caught the feather in surprise, it’s metal and coated silicon glittering multi-colored in his hands. He gaped at the thing, like he had just been given Captain America’s shield. It was thin as paper, but amazingly resilient; when Danny bent it, the feather bounced back to its original shape, nothing cracked or broken. When he pressed against the sides, the vanes and stem collapsed to form a compact disk the size of a dime.

Danny let it unfold, marveling the craftsmanship, before looking up to say thank you.

But Falcon had already left.


	5. Caveat Emptor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, kids, its not nice to push people. Use your words, not your telekinetic powers.
> 
> Re-edited as of 10/7/14

**Chapter Five**

**Caveat Emptor**

* * *

 

 

Falcon headed to Tribeca, where the homeless man was reported to have lived before his Guggenheim stunt. It was unlikely he walked all the way to the Guggenheim and happened to run into a White Rose goon who just tossed him drugs and guns and pushed him into the Guggenheim.

She tried not to think about Mrs. Murphy ribbing her for skipping the entire day of school on Thursday without an excuse, so she got a detention that afternoon. A detention she didn’t show up for. Friday was her next detention as punishment for both skipping Thursday’s classes and imprisonment, with another two next week to make up for it. Falcon didn’t go to her Friday detention, either, so she was probably going to be grounded in afternoon boredom for the next month. Falcon figured if she kept this streak up, she’d be set until summer break.

Falcon worked out some of her minor school-related frustrations by beating up some carjackers and guy armed with a water pistol trying to mug a group of college girls. Sure, she might’ve roughed him up a little more than necessary, but it made her feel better. And maybe next time those muggers and carjackers will think twice about committing crimes after having to recover from some broken bones in prison.

For the rest of the afternoon, on into the evening, and well into night did Falcon watch over Tribeca, hoping to spot some sign of the White Rose, anything that would give away their drug trade. How were they doing it? There were so many normal people here that it could literally be anyone she saw. If it was a store, which one?

It wasn’t until midnight did she spot a man stumbling about in an alleyway, running into walls, falling down, then getting back up again. He seemed completely unaware that he was heading towards a dead end. Would he just bounce off the wall and continue going, like one of those robot vacuum cleaners?

Since the guy was already wiped out as it was, Falcon decided to go easy on him. She dropped down from above, more bat than bird, and scared the dude right out of his wits. He uttered a short, girlish scream before falling on his butt, scrambling back crab-style before getting himself cornered against a Dumpster. He raised his arms in defense as Falcon drew nearer, keeping her steps slow and menacing. The man begged, “P-please, don’t hurt me! I didn’t do nothing wrong, I swears it!”

Falcon didn’t say anything to him. Instead, she picked him up by the collar and dragged him to the nearest lamppost on the street. As the yellow light washed over him, the man flinched as Falcon peered closer to look at his face. Yep, it was beet red, and his eyes were almost entirely bloodshot. His pupils were far too large. Even this weak light must be hurting him.

The man whimpered. “P-please, don’t hurt me. I promise, I never hurt anyone. I would never hurt anyone. I was just trying to get my fix! God, it hurt so much, I couldn’t help myself. I just _needed_ it so bad...”

“Needed what?” Falcon demanded. Her voice came out scrambled and deep – she had recently gotten a voice scrambler that she installed to the inside of her helmet. She felt it would be better for her cover if no one could recognize her voice. She was lucky Spider-Man was her friend and hadn’t put two and two together before the Venom incident. “Where do you get your fix? Who’s selling it?”

“No-no one’s selling it,” the man told her, shaking in fear. He stared at her, wide-eyed. “They give it out for free.”

Falcon’s silence was one of surprise. Her gravelly voice came out, “You’re lying.”

“No, I swears it!” the man said, placing his hands together as though he were praying. His green cap was slightly askew on his head, revealing greasy brown hair that matched a beard that hadn’t been shaved in days. “Look, the guy hands it out with every bag he sells. When I come in, I just ask for it and he gives it to me, no question! It’s a freakin’ miracle.”

“What is it called?” Falcon asked, afraid to hear the answer. She already knew what it was before he said it.

“It’s...it’s flowery,” the man made a face as he concentrated. He didn’t seem as crazy as the gunman – maybe this guy had already built up a tolerance – but clearly his thought processes weren’t all there. “Sweet, pretty. Like roses. Ah, Rosebud, that’s it! It’s the best thing I ever had. Helped me with my nicotine addiction, ya know.”

“I’m sure your family is proud,” Falcon replied in a deadpan tone. “Where did you get it? What store?”

“That one, right there!” the man jerked a shaky hand at a nearby storefront across the street. It was closed, but some lights were still on in the back. It looked like a butcher’s shop. He looked at Falcon, absolutely terrified, “You’re not going to destroy it, are you?”  
  
Falcon looked back at him, glad her black helmet hid all emotion. “I’d go back to smoking cigarettes. For once, it’ll actually make you live longer.”

“Aw man,” the man groaned, his head falling back against the metal lamppost. He held his hands up to the sky, as if addressing God himself. “Why do _I_ have to be the one that gets an angry demon after it? Are you going to take my soul?”

“Do you know who I am?” Falcon asked, honestly wondering.

“Um,” the man squinted at her in the dark light, sticking his tongue out as he concentrated for a moment. He held up a finger, “You’re the Devil, aren’t you?”

Falcon just heaved a sigh and took off into the air. The man held up his hand and shouted, “Thank you for not taking me to Hell!”

She burst into the store, bashing through the locked doors with ease. Sure, she could have unlocked them with her PK, but this felt much more satisfying. A man jumped, appearing from behind the register, gaping at Falcon in shock. “No! Not you!”

“You know why I’m here?” Falcon tilted her head to the side, watching the butcher in his bloody apron and thick arms as he scrambled back against the wall. For a man armed with thirty cleavers, he was utterly terrified of an unarmed assailant.

The butcher nodded, his three chins jiggling. He held up his hands in surrender, “Please don’t hurt me! This wasn’t my idea, I didn’t have a choice! They said if I didn’t hand it out, then they’d kill my family and burn down the store! Falcon, this is all I have. I can’t lose any of this!”  
  
Falcon considered this for a moment. She wasn’t going to hurt the butcher so long as he didn’t attack her first. But she didn’t want the White Rose to kill his family because of something she did. She jerked her chin at the cash register on the counter between them. “How much do you have? Did they pay you well?”

“They come with a new shipment every week. I have a quota to fill, make sure my customers leave with a bit of the drugs,” the Butcher nodded. He approached the register with jerky movements, flinching like he expected for her to shoot his knives at him. His hands smashed against the keys uselessly, he was so afraid. “I-I do my best. I think people just think they’re candy, they don’t actually know what it is. I mean, I hate that there might be kids eating this stuff, but what can I do? I have kids to feed.”

The White Rose were smart, preying on people who would do anything for their loved ones. Blackmail and bribery, that was their MO, whether it was with politicians or the common man. It made Falcon sick. She raised her hand and the drawer to the cash register burst open, slamming into the butcher’s gut. “I got it. Take half of what you got, then get the hell out of this city. Take your family with you, move to Canada. If you’re afraid of them, go someplace where they can’t get to you.”

The Butcher froze, staring at her. It wasn’t the best option, but it was better than facing the White Rose on his own and having his family murdered. “Are you...are you serious?”  
  
“Do I _look_ like I’m joking?”

“But-but what if they-what if they come after us?” the butcher demanded, slamming his hand on the wooden counter. “What if they want r-revenge or something?”

“I’m sure they’ve got plenty of other things to think about.” Falcon told him. She motioned towards the door. “They just want the city, they’re not going to hunt down nobody’s like you if you’re not going to pose a serious threat to their operation. Trust me, I know from experience.”

Back in October, she had been terrified that the people who took her mother would come after her. But not once has Amelia Fletcher had to deal with any repercussions with the White Rose. They probably saw her as a helpless little girl who just lost her mother, weak and relying on the police to do their job. She was sure the White Rose had other people distributing Rosebuds. One establishment down would hardly make a dent in their work. “What do they gain out of this if they don’t make you sell it, just give it away?”

“I don’t know.” The butcher just shrugged his shoulders, looking around as if their surroundings might offer up an answer. “That’s the thing, they show up, they dump their load, and they leave. Sometimes they ask questions, like how much I’ve given away, but that’s it really.”

“How do they deliver it? When?”

“By delivery truck. It’s painted to look like a bread company or something. They come every morning at eight o’clock.”

Falcon hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Leave. Now. I’ll destroy all your surveillance equipment so no one will know it was me who busted you. The White Rose might kill you if they know we met. Get your family out of this city as fast as you can. The White Rose wants to make the city into their little hellhole anyways, so the sooner the better.”

The butcher nodded his head, grabbed as much money as he could from the register, before grabbing coat and keys and running out the door. When she heard truck tires squealing off, she took the rest of the money from the register and headed to the back of the store.

There were a couple rooms, the main one filled with tables, crates, and ceiling hooks all carrying some form of meat. The place was small all together, so Falcon didn’t have to look very hard. Just behind the boxes of sausages were at least three dozen bricks wrapped in plastic, showing their red, round objects inside. The Rosebuds looked liked Rosebuds, how poetic. She only knew one way how to destroy them.

Falcon found the camera and the computer it was connected to, and crushed each of them into smithereens. Then she found all the old surveillance tapes and shattered those too, for good measure. She found some matches in a drawer of the desk in the back room. She gathered some confidential files, dropped them in a pile on top of the Rosebud packages, and lit a match, letting it fall onto the paper. It caught immediately, built up in gusto. The plastic melted with the heat, revealing its candy-red insides.

_FWOOM!_

As it turned out, Rosebuds were highly combustible. Falcon made it out as quickly as possible before the whole back room could blow up. The store had no upper levels, so she quickly dialed 9-1-1 at the front counter phone, asking the operator to send a fire truck at this location.

“And what is your address, um, sir?” the operator said, sounding a little worried by the strange voice Falcon was using.

She just smiled and let the receiver drop. “I know you can trace numbers. Find out for yourself.”

           

* * *

 

 

I knocked on the door to Luca Tomoni’s office. When the door opened, smoke blew out of the room. Behind Luca was another poker game, being played by big men smoking cigars. They didn’t even look up at me this time, ignoring the disturbance entirely.

Luca glared down at me. “What do you want?”

I smacked the wad of bills into his hulking chest. “Room ten-oh-three. Here’s what I owe you, paid in full.”

Luca Tomoni frowned down at this chest, picking at the bills like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. “You got all that cash in five days? How?”

I stepped back from the office, started heading up the stairs and away from the smell of nicotine. “Hey, I’m just trying to stay out of trouble. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

The man chuckled behind her, flicking through the bills with his thumb and waving them at her. “I like you, kid. You’re a real New Yorker. Everyone should just mind their own damn business, am I right, fellas?”

There was a mumble of agreement from the poker room, the sound of clinking glass. Luca Tomoni shut the door, behind him. He didn’t see how I had cracked the wooden banisters beneath my grip in my attempt to remain cool. I took a deep breath before letting go of the broken bar, and continued up the ten flights of stairs.

That attitude he congratulated me for was the same one that got my mother kidnapped. I didn’t allow myself to start crying until I hit the fifth floor.

When I finally entered the apartment, I slammed the door behind me and rested my back against it. I clutched my face in my hands, digging my nails into my skin and wondering how the hell I was going to make it through the next week an emotional wreck. Meditating and hiding my feelings just didn’t feel like it was helping me anymore.

Finally I spoke out into the darkness, “They’re White Rose, aren’t they?”

On my radar, Smoke appeared sprawled across the couch. He was eating one of my apples. Mouth full, he said, “How’d you guess?”

“I just get the feeling that they’re everywhere at the moment,” I said, dropping my arms at my sides. I looked up at him, licking my lips and wondering how I should act after a brief spell of crying. If Peter noticed, would Smoke as well? He wasn’t really the kind of guy I wanted to expose my vulnerability to. “Like I can’t win no matter what I do. I move in and they switch landlords. I rescue hostages and they hike up the rent. I find their drug trade and they kill innocents. I’m just lucky that I still have some of the public on my side.”

“Yeah, I heard about the place you burned down.” Smoke chuckled, chucking the apple core out the window behind him. Great, now my apartment was even colder. “Funny how it is. You call yourself a hero and yet you’re committing vigilante justice, battery and assault, now arson? I don’t understand how you can call yourself better than me when you’re breaking just as many laws, dove.”

“At least I don’t do it for money.” I shot back, crossing my arms and sticking out my chin.

Smoke didn’t look convinced. He just smirked at me and said, “Yeah, and I’m sure you got that rent money in a completely legal fashion, right? You didn’t happen to steal it from a certain butcher shop just before it was set ablaze, leaving behind no evidence of your appearance? You’re lucky the White Rose isn’t nearly as smart as I am.”

“What else do you know then?” I asked, hoping to change the subject before he could call me out on anything else. “What happened to Charlie, the old landlord? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Who knows?” Smoke shrugged like it didn’t really matter. “Maybe the Rose bribed him, maybe they killed him. Either way, he’s out of the picture. That’s the way they like it. You should really appreciate the irony, though – I mean, the White Rose have no idea they’re housing Falcon’s HQ on one of their own properties. They’ll probably kill Tomoni as soon as they find out.”

“And how long is that going to take?”

“Depends,” Smoke said, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen to search for more food I did not invite him to eat. Not that there was a lot to begin with. After not finding anything, he slammed the last cabinet door shut and slumped against the counter, heaving a sigh. “I suspect Tomoni’s gonna do his best to keep all his residents in line. At least you weren’t dumb enough to kick up a fight about your old landlord the same way you did with that other guy.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” I scowled at him, not liking the tone in his voice. What was he trying to say, that what I did was stupid? How dare he!

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Smoke shrugged and crossed his arms, making a face that said he was trying to understate a matter. “I mean, you burn down a respectable man’s business, break a twig off the Rose’s network, and dislocated an entire family and force them out of the city, all for what? A working class security guard? He was a complete nobody.”

“He wasn’t a nobody!” I shouted, my fists clenching at my sides. I pulled away from the door, moving so quickly that I startled myself by how fast I stuck my nose in Smoke’s face. “He had a family. He saved my life! He didn’t deserve to die.”

Smoke reeled back before I could hurt him. I hadn’t made to do anything of the sort, but now that I realized it, I kind of wanted to.

“So? Good people die every day!” Smoke retorted, throwing his hands up in the air. He spun around me so I didn’t have him cornered against the kitchen counter. I had seen that flash of fear in his eyes, a look he quickly threw off as he said, “And there’s nothing you can do about that. You call him a good person, a family man you cared about – but you have honestly no idea who he really was. The funeral doesn’t count; people don’t speak ill of the dead. You’re just turning a regular man doing his job into the tragic hero of the day.”

“I was giving his family justice! The White Rose had to be punished for what they did!” I snapped back, throwing my finger down at the floor, as though I were accusing Tomoni and his various cohorts of the crime. “They just sit pretty and play poker while they make innocent people do their dirty work. Koppel didn’t stand a chance against that.”

  
“You don’t know _what_ he deserved, Falcon!” he shouted. It hit me that this was turning into a real argument – no more with the teasing, the nicknames, and the little jibes. We had met at a junction and neither of us was willing to cede our stance. I sure as hell wasn’t going to back down. “People these days, they love a tragic death, so they eat this stuff up. They think what you’re doing is right, but you just turned Koppel into a martyr for your cause. He’s only special because _you_ made it that way.”

“No, I didn’t!” I yelled back, my guilt all but cracking under this accusation. I had done this because I was guilty, ashamed of what my actions led to – not because I needed sympathy from the public. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“Yeah, right!” Smoke just shook his head and scoffed. We were circling each other in the kitchen like two snarling lions exchanging glancing blows, waiting for the other one to make the first real move. “You act like you’re doing this man’s name, his family a favor, but really you’re just being selfish, you’re just trying to make yourself look good so people won’t hate you anymore!”

“Oh, because you’re such a model of generosity!” I rejoined with a snort. I couldn’t believe it. He actually didn’t believe me. Did he really think I was that conniving? Instead of feeling hurt, it made me angrier. I threw a finger into his face and said, “Don’t think you’re better than me –you don’t even care who gets hurt by the White Rose so long as you benefit from it. I’m trying to defend these people, fight for them! You’re just a greedy, prejudiced opportunist who doesn’t care about anyone who isn’t important to the White Rose. Face it, if I wasn’t Falcon, you wouldn’t even waste your time with me!”

“You don’t know that!” Smoke protested, looking surprisingly offended, but he didn’t stand a chance.

I interrupted him before he could defend himself, “Oh, really? You’re only here because I’m Falcon. You don’t even care who I was before. You don’t care what happened to Franklin Koppel and his family, or if the White Rose killed Charlie or not. Like you said, they were ‘Nobodies’,” I said, making air quotation with my fingers. “Be serious, if I were some average, normal girl on the street that you just happened to run into, would you even bother to give me a second look? Would you even care what happened to me if I happened to get mugged or attacked? No, you wouldn’t, because if the White Rose doesn’t care, then you don’t either.”

“The White Rose don’t control me, no one does!” Smoke swiped his hands through the air, as though he were trying to eliminate the thought. He stuck a thumb to his chest, declaring, “The only one in charge of me is me. I don’t care what they think. I don’t need their permission to do what I want.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll still do what they say when they tell you to,” I shot back. “I’m not an idiot; I know you got paid loads just to make me fall into that trap on Staten Island. I know you do jobs with the White Rose because you’re too afraid not to. They let you _think_ you’re in control because other people hire you, but honestly, they’re your biggest shareholders. If they call, you come running, like a little lapdog desperate to please his master!”

I emphasized my point by pushing him the chest. I wanted to fight. I just wanted to hit Smoke, even though no amount of punching would make him see my point. But I wanted to get a physical reaction out of him, too. And it almost worked.

Smoke stumbled back, catching the kitchen counter before he could fall. He raised a hand, almost as though he were going to hit me back, but after a second let it fall again. Smoke just shook his head and gave me a patronizing smile when he said, “I don’t hit girls.”

I AM NOT A GIRL _._

That flash of red.

A sudden blindness.

My arm going up without me wanting it to. Fingers splaying wide, an invisible force building in my chest and leaving from the palm of my hand.

Smoke was thrown into the air like he just got tackled by a New York Giant. He hit the floor with a grunt.

I blinked, taking a second to realize it happened. _Again_. Only this time, I had used my powers.

I stumbled back, the look on my face the exact same as Smoke’s: surprise, fear, horror. My back hit the counter and my knees collapsed beneath me. I dropped, breathing harsh and fast – when did it get so fast? – and my hands flew to my mouth. I could have _hurt_ him.

Shaking. I was shaking all over.

It took Smoke a second to get up and shake it off, but I could tell I shook him up. He leaned away as he backed off, rubbing his sore head and grimacing.

“Leave.” I whispered.

“What?” He asked, hands raised.

“I said,” whisper, then shout. “Leave!”

Wind burst in, knocking stuff off tables, rattling glasses, the windows flapping back and forth, my hair whipping around my face. I clenched my hands into fists, trying to force down the tears but not entirely sure it worked. _Stop stop stop!_

Finally, the mini-tornado died down, leaving two frazzled teens standing at opposite ends of the room. Smoke stared at me, as if finally realizing what happened. That I had lost control. That, in another universe, had he not been so lucky, he would be dead right now.

Smoke pointed a finger at me and said, “I knew you were messed up, but I didn’t think you were a maniac. The Rose are going to paint the streets in your blood.”

Then he disappeared without a single glance back.

I wanted to punch a wall. I _did_ punch a wall, but then I felt bad about it. Great, how was I going to cover that up? Was this what it was like to be in control of my powers? By _not_ being in control? I hadn’t unlocked my full potential when I first got my powers, but now I wasn’t so sure I ever wanted to get that far. What if full potential also meant utter lack of restraint? What if I lost my mind, like all those experiments before me?

Bruce had said it wouldn’t happen, that I was different. I couldn’t remember what he said now, but I was sure it wouldn’t apply anymore.

After Venom, everything changed. My perspective was whipped around. The stress of hiding my secret, the stress of school and friends and Aunt May in the hospital – really tipped me over the edge, but I hadn’t realized how much until now. Would I even make it to New Years without hurting myself, someone else? Even Christmas Vacation was starting to sound a little hopeful.

I wanted advice from Bruce, to hear his voice again, strangely soothing; but I had pissed off the only person who knew where he was. Great. I smacked myself in the head for not thinking ahead. That was another problem I had. I couldn’t foresee the consequences of my actions. My temper just got the better of me and now I was stuck with no feasible way out.

For now, I had to pray I’d run into Smoke again. Until then, I was going to make the White Rose regret killing Franklin Koppel.


	6. Carpe Noctem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why buy a phone when you can just steal one?
> 
> Borrow. Borrowing phones.
> 
> Re-Edit on 10/7/14

**Chapter Six**

**Carpe Noctem**

* * *

 

 

I woke up in a cold sweat, breathing hard and heart pounding like I just ran a five mile marathon against a team of hungry velociraptors.

My nightmares had been getting worse.

I didn’t tell Peter that, or Gwen or Aunt May. They’re the only ones who would know, understand why I would be shaking and crying in the middle of the night, not having a single clue what the hell had gotten into me. I took it to the apartment because I didn’t want anyone else to hear me. I didn’t want Aunt May to put me into therapy, something expensive the family couldn’t afford, selling cook books and freelance photography aside.

It started getting real bad after the Venom incident - maybe if I had been paying attention, I would have seen those little, um... _attacks_ coming. Maybe I could have prevented hurting anyone if only I had known.

Well, it was too late now.

But I’ve had the occasional nightmare after my mother was kidnapped, a flashback now and then, but maybe that was because the reality hadn’t hit me yet – that my mother wasn’t coming back, that it might happen to me, too. Those stupid Christmas commercials, with those smiling happy families, with mothers who had picky kids and clueless fathers who didn’t know what to get them, and two laughing, innocent kids who were always surprised and happy what they got for presents. And not just one or two, but like five or six or ten –who the hell gets ten wrapped presents for Christmas?

They reminded me of everything I never had. Could never have.

Maybe I was just searching for an excuse. I had to slip out of bed to go to the bathroom. I kept the light off because not only did I not need it to see, but I didn’t want to look at my reflection in the mirror. It was always a mess when I woke up in the middle of the night like this. Terrible hair, red eyes with dark bags, an expression of defeat that I winced at.

The fight with Smoke didn’t help. I pissed off a friend and now I was probably never going to see him again. Well, he was annoying anyways, so no great loss there. My excellent social skills (NOT) were to blame for that.

Still, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Had I just ruined my only chance to see Bruce again? Would he be able to help me? Stop me from losing control?

I splashed water onto my face, sending chills down my body. It was freezing in here. I couldn’t go back to sleep, I feared the images that flashed behind my eyes. Of my mother, screaming at me to run. Of guns being pointed at me, at her. Being thrown out the window. Broken glass, falling. Hospitals.

Ugh. I shuddered. I hated hospitals.

There was no way I could fall back asleep tonight, not without fear of nightmares again. So I went back to sit on my bed and stare at the wall for a little bit. I tried to meditate but all I got were flashbacks of the night my mom was kidnapped and the scene in the Guggenheim. Eventually I just gave up all together.

Instead I decided to clean my room. Nothing in the apartment was ever really _neat_ because I never really bothered, but I couldn’t spend the rest of the night doing nothing. So I started picking up my homework, my books, stuff that’s been on the floor for weeks that I’ve never picked up. That’s when I found the gun under my bed – how it got there, I couldn’t remember, but now I had a completely different idea in mind.

There was no way this thing could be completely unstoppable. It had to have a weakness, some fault I could exploit. Just because I couldn’t jam it didn’t mean there weren’t other options.

The trigger was never an option. I didn’t mess with those, even on normal guns. Holding it in place with my mind was a good idea on paper, but there were a lot of variables to consider in real life. How strong the gunman was, how strong the trigger was, how far away the both of them were from me, how unpredictable the situation was. It’d be easier to flip the safety on but the gunman could always switch it back. Keeping either in place required concentration and became a distraction if I was trying to keep a man from firing off his gun if I was in the middle of another fight. Jamming the gun took only a single thought and I didn’t have to worry about it afterwards.

But a gun that couldn’t be jammed? That required creativity.

First I had to figure out how this thing worked besides making it shoot. It took five minutes of examining it, pressing for buttons, anything to make the weapon discharge its cartridge of whatever ammo it had. I finally got it by slamming the heel of my palm into the handle of the gun, dislodging the grey piece and sending it clattering to the floor.

I picked up the cartridge from the floor, upending it in my hand. Twenty little green cylinders fell into my hand, the size of AAA batteries. There were tiny letters written across the sides: SYNDICON.

I sighed. Of course. Dr. Pigott, the genius at the center of the phantom company, hadn’t been able to destroy _all_ of his work when he set his lab on fire and killed himself in the process. The Gray Matter got through, and apparently so did these things. Weapons that would change the field of combat as we know it.

But just because he was a genius didn’t mean all of Dr. Pigott’s designs were flawless. I could remove this cartridge with my mind, if I wanted to. Those who used these guns wouldn’t be so armed and dangerous if they didn’t have the ammo.

I let a single cylinder hover in the air, studying it. There was liquid inside of it, sloshing back and forth. I curled my hand into a fist, quick and fast, crushing the cylinder with my mind.

_Fwoom!_

The room flashed with light as the cylinder, and its contents, exploded upon contact with the air. I turned my head away before I could get a face full of hot cinders. Hmm, highly combustible material rendered into projectile form. Convenient.

Did Dr. Kane know about this? Could she be feeding the White Rose weapons? I didn’t want to think so – she hated them, wanted to take them down and replace them. Or perhaps that she _wanted_ me to think. Maybe she’s giving them the guns in the hopes that my inability to jam them will be enough of an advantage to kill me. Or maybe she knows I know she knows and is just pretending she doesn’t have anything to do with it, while secretly reaping the benefits. That kind of reverse-psychology was really screwing with my head right now.

I scowled and grabbed the gun, pushing it between my two open palms. The metal bent and twisted under the force of my strength until the gun was flattened to some alien object, completely unrecognizable from its previous shape. My mind was stronger than what my physical body was capable of, but it felt satisfying to use my hands for once. To know that that gun could be someone’s head or something, that I was stronger than I looked.

That I could be unstoppable.

 

* * *

 

 

Detention again. Woof.

Classes itself did not go well. Astor Sloane was back from the hospital, with a bright pink cast on her arm and a chip on her shoulder. I mean, I wasn’t afraid of her or anything, but she proceeded to make my life miserable in the only way a vengeful teenage girl off field hockey season could: with passive aggression.

For example, I was walking behind her when entering the girl’s bathroom to gym class. Most decent people would hold the door open for the person behind them, but Astor made a point to slam the door in my face. I wanted to be petty and tell Coach Bronson what she was doing, but after breaking Astor’s arm, I didn’t want to look like a hypocritical, whiny brat in front of everyone else. No one would feel sorry for me.

After that, during the class itself, no one would pass me the ball during a game of basketball. The first couple times I figured I was either in the wrong place or they didn’t see me, but there was a point when I was wide open, with no enemy players around me, and Tracy Johnson decided to toss the ball to Gwen Stacy.

Who was on the opposite team and was as graceful as a drunk cat.

I was also pretty sure Astor was spreading rumors about me. At my locker, Peter asked me if it was true whether or not I took steroids. We both knew I didn’t and I asked him why he’d ask such a stupid question. He replied that he heard a bunch of girls talking in science class about it; how that was the only way I could’ve hurt Astor, a girl far bigger than I was.

(No, seriously, she was a full head taller than me).

Peter wanted to know if everything was all right, and I think he meant in way that was not school-related. But with everyone around I couldn’t really say anything, so instead I asked him when he was going to talk about the kiss he had with Gwen. Peter made some weird noises, like he still didn’t know what to say, and made himself scarce when I looked away.

My rumor theory was confirmed when I walked into the girl’s bathroom on the third floor. There were already five girls inside, clearly skipping class and gossiping, not actually _using_ any of the stalls.

They were the ‘preppy’ sort, I guess, I don’t really know what the hell they’re called these days. They were the kind who weren’t cheerleaders, necessarily, but they loved pep rallies and fancy purses and putting on make-up in a place where no one cared. I mean, _I_ didn’t give too fiddlesticks about lipstick or eye shadow or whatever. I really didn’t have the kind of lifestyle that would make cosmetics very useful – half the time I’m sweating in a gym or on the street trying not to die; I really didn’t have the luxury of stopping to powder my nose.

Maybe I was ugly and should try make-up; maybe people wouldn’t think I was so weird or antisocial. Or maybe they’d think I was trying too hard. Maybe I was such a freak that nothing could ever hide it. Maybe I just shouldn’t bother.

And these girls judged me for it, I could tell. As soon as they saw me, they stopped talking and looked in the mirror, or at their phones. Just standing there, like nothing was weird at all, glancing at each other when they thought I wouldn’t notice. Their attempt at subtlety left something to be desired.

I decided to play on their fears and glare at them for a full ten seconds. They all chickened out and ran, leaving me by myself with a satisfied smirk on my face. Well, if they wanted me to be weird, then I was going to be _weird_. I didn’t even use the bathroom.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, detention.

After skipping out the last couple times, the woman wasn’t going to take any chances. She kept checking on me, as though I might suddenly disappear while she wasn’t looking, and kept me busy by writing an essay about respect and discipline. I only gave a half-hearted attempt at it before deciding that getting out of here would be the much better solution.       

So I raised my hand – the only way Mrs. Murphy would acknowledge a student, and sometimes not even then. It wasn’t exactly, necessary, since I was still the only kid in the room, but talking to her directly would only earn me more work to do.

It took Mrs. Murphy a full two minutes (I know, I counted) for her to finally look up and squint at me. “Is there a problem, Miss Fletcher?”

I kept my eyes focused straight ahead and my expression devoid of any emotion when I asked, “Can I go to the bathroom?”

Mrs. Murphy just fixed me with a frown, “You know the rules, Miss Fletcher. You can go to the bathroom _after_ detention is over.”

“But,” I knew this was about to happen and I had to force myself to think fast. I knew about the bathroom rule; I’d just been hoping that I’d get lucky and she’d forget. But obviously that didn’t happen. I winced and lied, “It’s, uh, it’s a _feminine_ issue. You know?”

Mrs. Murphy pursed her lips before finally saying, “All right, fine. But take the bathroom pass. I want you back in five minutes, no more.”  
  
“You got it,” I said, giving her a quick salute and dashing out of the room with my backpack.

I headed straight for the girl’s bathroom, like I said. There were no cameras in there and with no after school activities on this floor, I knew I wasn’t going to get caught.

What I didn’t tell Mrs. Murphy was the little detour I took.

When you go to Midtown long enough, you usually hear about the blind spot on the second floor, the small inlet between two walls of lockers that’s completely hidden from all camera angles. Most kids didn’t have need of it, unless they planned on sticking there for an entire class (not fun, there isn’t enough room to sit), or to trade cigarettes and other miscellanea not allowed on school grounds.

It was also the perfect spot to steal a cell phone.

 _Borrow_. I meant borrow.

Slipping into the blind spot, all I had to do was pry the back corner of the nearest locker to gain access inside. Some telekinesis helped, and my luck finally played out with whatever kid forgot their phone here at school.

I’d only use it for one call. I’d delete it afterwards. The owner would never even know it was gone.

I slipped back out from the blind spot as cool as could be. No one would know.

I hid in one of the stalls, closing the door and standing on the toilet with my backpack on the hook. The walls were so high on the stalls that I couldn’t even see over them, not even on top of the toilet. It was discouraging but right now it didn’t matter. I took out the borrowed phone, finding it locked but getting through because the oil from the owner’s fingers left on the surface of the screen revealed the path of the number password.

After a few tries, I got in. I felt a kick of glee in my chest as I quickly dialed the number I wanted.

The phone rang and on the other end Peter picked up. He sounded breathless and a little annoyed, “Peter Parker, who is this?”

“Pete, it’s me, are you busy right now?” I asked, cupping my hand over my mouth in case someone in the hall overheard me. “I need to meet up with you later.”

“As a matter of fact, I _am_ busy,” Peter grunted. I could hear static the wind was creating on the other side of the phone. So he was already swinging through the streets. “I’ve got a crazy Russian maniac on my heels and he’s trying really hard to turn me into a stuffed head on a wall. How are you calling me, what phone are you using?”

“A cell phone I got from someone’s locker.” I said, glancing up when I felt someone approach on my radar. I still had time, so it couldn’t be Mrs. Murphy, unless she lied or got suspicious.

“ _You stole a cell phone_?” Peter said, alarmed. There was a loud scratchy noise as if he just narrowly dodged an explosion. “And you complain about that thief guy who always give you grief. Hypocrite, much?”

“Hey, I’m just borrowing it! I’ll put it back.” I snapped back in a hushed tone. The presence moved away, probably a janitor or another teacher. “So, I’ll be out there in like ten, okay? I just have to get out of detention first.”

“Uh, sure,” he replied, sounding doubtful. “But Mrs. Murphy doesn’t let kids out early. How are you gonna manage that? Where are you now?”

“I’m in the girl’s bathroom,” I whispered, stepping down off the toilet and opening my backpack. I reached for the helmet inside. “I just have to wait first.”

“Why can’t you just leave?” Another loud crunch, like a car being smashed by a teenager in a blue-and-red unitard.

“Because I don’t want to get more detention, duh,” I said, pulling off my hoodie and kicking off my shoes. “Mrs. Murphy is onto me. But I’ve got an idea. Don’t worry, it’ll be a cinch.”

“ _You won’t get caught_?”

“Come on, you know me,” I snorted, stuffing my civilian clothes into my backpack and swinging it over my shoulder. “They won’t even see me on the camera.”

I hung up and stuffed the phone into the outer pocket on my backpack. The kid would just have to wait until tomorrow to get his phone back. I felt bad, but supervillains in Manhattan took precedence. I closed my eyes and concentrated, letting my radar expand until I found a fire alarm.

The security cameras would not catch me. They would not see the girl who went into the bathroom come out when the lights started flashing and the ear-piercing screech filled the halls. My radar recoiled from the shrill noise, making me dizzy and disoriented. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever adapt to that, but for now incredibly loud, piercing noises were a weakness I had to deal with. It was one of the reasons I didn’t party much.

The other reason was that I didn’t like parties. Obviously.

I left through the tiny window at the top of the bathroom wall. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen tomorrow – would Mrs. Murphy figure out it was me? How many other people were in this school right now? Would I get another detention for not serving this one out?

But I knew one thing. School tomorrow was definitely going to be _a lot_ more interesting.


	7. Hic Sunt Leones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the Circle of Liiiiife...
> 
> Re-Edited 10/7/14

**Chapter Seven**

**Hic Sunt Leones**

* * *

 

 

By the time Falcon reached Spider-Man and his new friend, they had already destroyed half of the Museum of Natural History and caused a major accident across the street.

Spider-Man went sprawling onto the asphalt and just looked up to see the giant man-beast throw a purloined Tyrannosaurus Rex skull at him. The hero would be surprised, however, when the skull halted in mid-flight and went straight back at its thrower, striking the attacker and sending it back into the museum – and away from the bus full of innocents the skull would have crashed into.

“Falcon!” Spider-Man looked up as the girl landed on the bus, opening the jammed doors with her mind so the civilians could make their escape. “About time!”

“Hey, you should be more grateful!” she complained, overturning a flipped taxi and allowing a family and the driver to scramble out. They were bruised and banged up, but seemed mostly unhurt. The daughter, around twelve or thirteen, had to be pulled away by her mother after becoming enraptured by the sight of the two heroes and complaining to see the rest of the fight. Falcon was personally glad to see them all gone and out of her way. “I had to break at least a dozen school rules to get here. I flew as fast as I could!”

Spider-Man was about to retort when the most recent public disturbance came charging back out of the museum, having gotten over the blow Falcon had dealt him. He seemed to go for Spider-Man at first, but paused when he realized there was another player in the game.

The beast raised his head, covered in a thick brown mane and sniffed the air, feline eyes narrowing on the bird girl. “What manner of creature is this? I have heard of you, the elusive Falcon. You do not smell like the animal you mimic, girl.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t think too hard about it,” Falcon replied, trying to figure out just _what_ she was looking at. “And you’re one to talk, Mufasa. What are you supposed to be, a reject from the stage of _Cats_?”

Spider-Man actually laughed, seeming surprised of himself. “Ha! That was actually funny!”

Falcon allowed herself a small smile. She had been working on her quips, deciding it was time well spent in detention while she otherwise wasted her time. The man-beast, however, did not seem as amused by her hard work, snarling and lowering onto all fours, like a lion ready to pounce. He shouted, “You will merely become another trophy of my achievements, bird! No animal can overcome Kraven, the Hunter!”

Falcon threw a glance at Spider-Man. “ _That’s_ the name he’s going with?”

Spider-Man just shrugged. “Hey, I don’t always get to make the call – oof!”  
  
Kraven the Hunter, as he so liked to be called, decided to take advantage of Spider-Man’s moment of distraction and slammed into the Webhead at full speed. The two became a blur of red, blue, orange and black as they crashed through the park beyond. Spider-Man’s landing was softened with a tree trunk and he fell into a snow bank, momentarily stunned.

When Falcon dropped down beside him, Spider-Man had picked himself up and said, “Jeez, you couldn’t be bothered to help?”

“Do want me to hold your hand, too?” Falcon shot back, pointing at him. “You’re the senior hero here; I just showed up to support you.”  
  
“In a non-combative capacity?” Spider-Man replied, then paused and looked around. “Um, where did he go?”

The two heroes immediately went on high alert. Spider-Man jumped into the tree above them, scanning the area while Falcon dropped low, in case the Hunter decided to pounce.

She winced when Spider-Man started calling: “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! Here, kitty, kitty...You know, Falcon, I wish I was playing Hide and Seek with Black Cat. I still prefer my feline’s female.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Falcon called back, trying to tone down the weird shudder going down her back. There were a lot of things that a superhero had to get used to, and male family members (even if she only had one) talking about attractive females still made her a bit uncomfortable.

A second of silence passed. Then two. It seemed to stretch on forever, but Falcon knew that it was just her nerves that were twisting with her perception of time passing. The fact that she sensed nothing on her radar, even when she stretched it as far as she could manage without feeling dizzy, made Falcon worry. Just how _good_ was this Kraven? Maybe his title as a hunter wasn’t so silly-sounding after all...

Like a bat out of hell, Kraven seemed to appear out of thin air, roaring as he tackled Spider-Man. Or tried to, at least, because Spider-Man, for all his wild antics, was a second faster.

Spider-Man jumped away before the hunter’s unnaturally long claws could wrap around him, bouncing between two trees as the Kraven followed close behind. It was like a game of pinball, if the pinball had a very determined tailgater.

Falcon was starting to confuse herself with these analogies.

But Kraven was still fast enough, knocking Spider-Man off balance and tossing him back and forth before the hero finally fell at Falcon's feet.

“Um, help please?” Spider-Man groaned as he tried to pick himself up again. Falcon didn’t need to be told twice as Kraven came back down, heading straight for the fallen hero.

Falcon jumped in the way, blocking Kraven’s path. The giant lion beast seemed completely undeterred, perhaps because she was even smaller than Spider-Man. Feeling a twinge in frustration to see that she brought no fear into the hunter’s eyes, she opened her wings and brought her arms up.

Kraven’s skin was covered in a thick layer of fur, which explained why he was bare-chested (so to speak) and dressed incredibly lightly for the burgeoning winter. Meanwhile, Falcon was in the middle of freezing her bones off while she prepared for the full strength of Kraven’s impact and used the beast’s momentum against him.

Instead of simply stopping his attack with her own body, Falcon let her palms face out and push up when Kraven came into contact. The hunter cried out when she sent him flying in the air, using nothing but the sleight of hand and his own force to send him halfway across the park.

“Nice,” Spider-Man admired her work as Kraven disappeared into a plume of snow. “I thought you were the brute force type, but it’s nice to see you switching up your moves.”

“You think I was going to stop _that_?” Falcon replied, bewildered. She nodded towards Kraven, who was charging back at them, angrier than ever. “Are you kidding? That would really hurt.”

They had about three more seconds before the Hunter would be on top of them. Spider-Man looked at her and said, “I’ve got a plan. You in?”

“Well, I didn’t have a plan, so yeah, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“All right!” Spider-Man threw his arms up in the air. “Tag team! I’m it!”

Whether Kraven was going along with it or he was prioritizing with killing Spider-Man first, it was hard to tell, but that’s who he went after. Falcon took to the sky above while Spider-Man ran across the snow, webbing trees as he went and boxing in him and his feline attacker between a series of nets.

Falcon managed to figure out was Spider-Man was trying to do with his first attempt at a trap, but it wasn’t working very well. His steel-strength webbing was no match for the Kraven who, although mildly frustrated with getting turned into a mummy, managed to break free every time.

Spider-Man’s attempts at trying to get Kraven stuck in his web between trees barely slowed the hunter down. In fact, it just made the man-beast angrier as he tore off, taking some frozen bark with him. Spider-Man managed to throw in a good punch or two, but when he started climbing the trees, it became clear that merely trapping the Kraven wasn’t going to be enough.

The hero leaped from tree to tree and tried to web the branches along the way to slow down the pursuing Kraven, but there came a problem when he was at the end of the tallest branch, with no near tree in sight, and having completely run out of web fuel.

Kraven reared back, triumphant at Spider-Man’s apparent defeat. “Now you’re mine, prey!”

“Uh, sorry,” Spider-Man looked up at the hunter, looking only a little annoyed. “ _Who’s_ the prey? Falcon, you’re it!”

“What?” Kraven stared at the Webhead, bewildered. He looked up just in time to get a nice combat boot to the face.

“About time!” Falcon said, landing on the branch beside Spider-Man as Kraven went sprawling into the snow below. “I was getting bored up there just watching you. If you called me earlier, we’d be done by now!”

“Hey, you don’t get to question my planning!” Spider-Man scowled, jumping back and kicking Kraven in the chest as the hunter leaped back up the tree. He directed the blow towards Falcon, who had distanced herself as well to prepare for the incoming Kraven. “When you said you didn’t even have a plan!”

“You don’t hold the rights on planning!” Falcon replied, grabbing Kraven’s leopard print vest (which unfortunately felt very real) and punched the hunter in the face before throwing him back at Spider-Man. “I could’ve come up with a better one if you’d given me some time.”

“Well, when you come up with a brilliant master plan in the middle of a heated battle,” Spider-Man shouted back, decking Kraven with another gut kick and launching him back towards Falcon. “You come and tell me and we’ll see how it goes!”

Falcon had to fly into the air to catch Kraven this time. She clasped her hands together and brought her fists down on Kraven’s head, punctuating her blow with a mighty, “DEAL!”

Battered, bruised, and beaten, Kraven fell into the last web below, catching his fall and leaving the hunter unconscious as the heroes descended to admire their work. Spider-Man announced, “Take that, pussy cat! A lesson in humility, courtesy of the original and still Number _One_ genetic misfit: Me!”

Falcon crossed her arms and glared at him. It didn’t matter if there was no one in the direct vicinity to hear him, Falcon still wanted some respect. And maybe some humility in Spider-Man himself.

Spider-Man closed his eyes and sighed, then threw a thumb in her direction. “And his loyal sidekick, Falcon.”

He got a snowball to the noggin for that one. That was about as good as Falcon was going to get, however. Spider-Man laughed and Falcon managed a smile of her own, but the merriment was cut short when something blipped on her radar.

She looked around, alarmed. Falcon couldn’t tell if it was physical movement or the wind or a sound, just that it resonated deep enough for her to notice. She didn’t see or hear anything after that, but Falcon was reassured she wasn’t going crazy, because Spider-Man seemed to notice it, too.

“What was that?” she asked aloud, looking over to the streets, the general direction of the noise...or whatever it was. Falcon had the creepy feeling of being watched.

“I don’t know,” Spider-Man replied, as confused as she was. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

They turned around to gaze at their catch. But the net was empty. Kraven had gone.

“And so is our new friend,” Falcon muttered, frustrated that she let the minor distraction let a major problem get away. “Too bad. I wanted him to see what the inside of Ravencroft Institute looked like. And maybe my fists, too.”

“Well, that’s a battle for another day.” Spider-Man sighed, dropped down to land on the net and placing his fists on his hips. He took a second to examine the empty space where Kraven would be, as if he could somehow divine how the man-beast got away without either of them noticing. Then he turned back to Falcon, still in the tree, and said, “So what did you want to talk to me about again?”

“Oh, right,” Falcon shook her head, at first confused as to what Spider-Man was referring to. After dealing with Kraven, Falcon had forgotten the reason she came here in the first place. “It’s about the White Rose. And you’re not going to like it.”

“What else is new?” Spider-Man said.

 

* * *

 

 

I joined Peter on his trip to the hospital. He had to explain to me who got hurt and why he _wasn’t_ there for them.

“Didn’t you see the game?” Peter asked me as we walked through the doors into the emergency room lobby. He had a black eye from the fight with Kraven, but it was of little notice in a room full of broken bones, bloody noses, and other various injuries. “Flash broke his leg. It was pretty nasty – but hey, we won State!”

“How would I know that?” I replied, frowning. It was one thing to expect me to care about sports; it was another to expect me to actually _watch_ the games. “I was in detention, remember? I missed the entire thing.”

“Not that you would’ve gone anyways.” He said, and he wasn’t wrong. But it still left a question unanswered.

So I said, “And don’t you hate Flash? He’s, like, the last person in the world you’d feel sorry for. Among others.”

Peter looked a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his head and chuckling, “Well, tonight’s been a really weird night. I actually threw a stuffed gorilla in Flash’s name. Can you believe it?”

“I believe you’re starting to lose your mind,” I said, smirking, just as we turned a corner and nearly ran into someone else. Well, _I_ didn’t, because I sensed them coming, but Peter was caught completely off guard by the sudden bear hug he received from a girl with long dark hair. It didn’t really take too much to figure out who it was. “Oh, hello.”

“Petey!” Liz Allan cried, burying her head into his shoulder. “I’m so glad you came.”

Peter grunted a little at the impact. After getting a similar but much more violent treatment from Kraven, he was a little worse for wear. “A-are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, stepping back to look him in the eyes. Or eye, since the other one was closed due to injury. “But Flash is still in surgery. I know you two aren’t exactly close, but...if you just sit with me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter murmured.

Liz finally seemed to notice I was standing there, having watched the entire thing. For her part, Liz looked a little embarrassed. She bit her lip and her eyes flicked away. “Oh, hi, Amy. I...I didn’t see you there. You here for Flash, too?”

I was not about to be the third wheel in a Liz-and-Peter thing. On top of the fact that I still wasn’t sure if they were actually dating or not (or how I felt about the situation), I also knew Liz wasn’t my biggest fan. While she was nicer than most cheerleaders, it didn’t take much to see that she was swayed by the rumors about me. Rumors that may or may not spoil the relationship between her and my cousin. I knew when I wasn’t wanted.

“Nah, I was just dropping Peter off,” I said, trying to make light of the situation and managed a smile. Peter threw me an aside glance and I just ignored him. “I’m gonna head back out. If you need anything, Pete, you know where to find me.”

He nodded his thanks and went over with Liz to sit in a nearby seat. As I left, I heard the sound of doors opening – Flash just being released from surgery, a crowd of family and friends gathering around his sleeping form. I didn’t turn back to hear about his current condition.

As I went through the emergency room lobby again, I looked at the people waiting for aid. There were those that I mentioned before, injuries from utility accidents, car accidents, a few from the recent spar with Kraven. But there was disproportionate number of haggard individuals with red eyes and shaky hands. They were not physically injured but it didn’t take a genius to figure out why they were here.

My gaze had been focused on a particular individual, a boy probably no older than myself, shivering and hugging himself as he stared at the floor. I had to turn away when he looked up, as though sensing that I was watching at him. It made me angry, to see someone like him like this. A part of me didn’t want him to think I was disgusted with him, but the other part wanted me to go up and ask what the hell was he thinking?

If the boy thought anything was off with my reaction, he didn’t say anything. He just went back to looking at the floor, hunching up and trying to make himself smaller. He looked so thin and cold – I tried to imagine what it would be like in his shoes, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. The boy, this room, this hospital were all just reminders of the White Rose’s work.

I couldn’t leave the building fast enough.


	8. Onus Probandi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?
> 
> Re-Edited as of 10/11/14
> 
> Please read and review :D

**Chapter Eight**

**Onus Probandi**

* * *

 

The first thing Falcon did once leaving that hospital was to hunt down a drug dealer and put him on display.

Finding one wasn’t that hard. She just had to go to the nearest residential district (Upper West Side), cruise the skies until she found some loner loitering around street corners and dark alleyways, before giving him the drop.

Falcon probably didn’t have to beat him up as much as she had to. Of course, she took some pleasure when he saw her and ran. She flew over, giving the guy a couple seconds to zig-zag across the tarmac and pretend that he actually had a chance.

She got bored of it pretty quickly, and wasn’t about to give the grungy man in the dark hoodie an opportunity to escape into a nearby building. Folding in her wings, Falcon quickly lost altitude and landed feet first on the man’s shoulders, slamming him into the dirt and rolling off in one smooth motion.

“P-p-please, don’t hurt me...” the man whimpered, trying to pick himself up off the ground. He raised his hands, either in surrender or to protect his head, probably both.

Falcon just tilted her head, analyzing and deciding that he wasn’t much of a threat. This was just some low-level crony, some guy the White Rose would have picked up off the street just to sell their drugs. She couldn’t even find a piece on him, although there were plenty plastic baggies full of contraband materials.

With a wave of her hand, Falcon flipped up the piece of cardboard the man landed on, tossing the man back on his butt. Surprised, the man scrambled back, crab-walking as though he couldn’t find the strength to stand. Then, after making a far distance away, he got up and started to run again.

Falcon didn’t go after him. Instead, she flicked a finger and a trashcan went flying into the man’s side, knocking him off his feet again. He cried out and covered his head as the trashcan came back, dumping its contents on him and making further dents in its metal sides as it beat down upon his body.

Perhaps there was something wrong with Falcon, finding satisfaction in the man’s yelps and cries. But she justified her actions in that this man deserved it – who knew how much Rosebud he was selling, who knew how many he was hurting right now. If the drug dealer didn’t want to get beat up, he should’ve known better than to try such things in her city.

About five minutes in, Falcon got bored and dropped the trashcan. It clattered across the ground, rolling towards the street. The drug dealer didn’t move, quivering on the ground as Falcon walked up to him.

She looked down and crossed her arms, asking him, “Are you going to run away again?”

The drug dealer was so terrified he wouldn’t even look up at Falcon. He just shook his head, frantic and said, “N-n-no...no, I won’t, I promise!”

“Good.” Falcon said, then lifted him up by his clothes. The man kicked and struggled, unwillingly manhandled as Falcon raised her arms and hooked his shirt on the overhang of a nearby streetlamp. “Why don’t you just hang around for a bit?”

“Ah, let me down!” the man reached over his head, trying to slip out of his shirt, but his back was flush with the metal pole – he was stuck too tightly in, and his hoodie did not have the convenience of buttons or zippers. He flailed his arms, shouting, “Please, you don’t know what they’ll do to me when I get caught!”

“You mean justice?” Falcon said, looking up at him and admiring her work. Sure, she may not have the webbing that Spider-Man always used to sling up his criminals, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t improvise. “Somehow, I can’t empathize.”

“Not the police, man!” the drug dealer shook his head. “It’s the people they’ll be locking me up with. You know how many people there are in Ryker’s that want to kill someone like me? I’ll be dead before the second night!”

“Yeah, sure,” Falcon was not about to be tricked into letting a drug dealer go free. If there was one place this man belonged, it was jail. “That’s not gonna work on me, bud.”

“You’ve never been inside,” The drug dealer retorted, a bold statement but not incorrect. Falcon paused, just long enough to hear him out. “You think it’s bad out here, bird girl? Imagine how many more of the Rose is behind bars. They don’t take kindly to losers like me. You want another death on your conscience?”

Falcon clenched her fists. Who the hell was he to bring that up? He wasn’t an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. He didn’t deserve to be treated the same way.

But still. She didn’t want to be responsible for this man’s death, whether or not he was a criminal. He certainly didn’t seem to be a killer himself. When the police find him, there was no way the man could weasel out of the drug charges, and it would be one-way ticket to Riker’s.

She couldn’t let him go free. But there was a way to protect him.

Falcon swiped her hand through the air. The drug dealer winced, expecting to be struck again by airborne objects, but instead his pockets turned out and nearly three pounds worth of Rosebud and crack fell to the pavement.

The man stared, asking, “What’re you doing?”

“You don’t want to go to Ryker’s, fine,” Falcon pulled a match from her belt – she kept some things on hand now that she had some reliable pockets. Lighting it, she let the match drop onto the packets of white and red. The contents caught fire almost immediately. “Maybe the cops will find residue on your body, but at least they can’t prove you were in possession. Maybe you’ll get sent to a nice correctional facility, rehabilitate you into a helpful member of society. I guess it just depends on if you want to see me again. Or your lovely friends with the Rose.”

The man’s eyes widened, understanding what she was doing. He seemed somewhat upset that she was burning quality product, but she knew he was much happier with staying alive. Just before she was about to leave, he asked, “Wait, how am I supposed to explain the money I got? It’s not like I’ve got a real job.”

“Really?” Falcon swiveled on her heel, facing him again. Another wave of her hand and the man’s pants pockets were emptied of several wads of cash. They floated into her hand. At least two hundred dollars, if not more. She stuck the cash into her belt. “How kind of you to mention that. The city of New York thanks you for your contribution.”

“Oh, come on!” the man complained, kicking his legs. “Give me my money back. I worked hard for that, you know!”

“Well, if you want it that way,” Falcon said, hands on her hips, keeping her tone reasonable. It sounded odd, particularly since her voice scrambler had the opposite effect. “I suppose I can just wait until the police arrive and explain to them the whole matter. But they like me as much as they like you, so I don’t think it’ll work out in either of our favors.”

The man slumped, hanging limply from his post. With a glum look, he said, “Oh, fine, keep it. But-but don’t tell the Rose, okay? If they find out, I’m a dead man for sure.”

“I’ll keep quiet if you do,” Falcon replied. Was she really making a deal with a petty criminal? It seemed so off, yet she wasn’t as angry as before. Still, she was keeping the cash. “So shut up and play dump when the cops ask questions.”

Without preamble, Falcon took off, not caring to listen to whatever further complaints the drug dealer had about his current situation. Falcon had already done him a huge favor by burning his stash, she wasn’t going to let him escape on a luxury cruise or something. Besides, she was already strapped for cash – she had yet to find a legitimate job, and getting paid for hero-work make her feel more like a mercenary.

It wasn’t stealing. Falcon tried to reassure herself of this. She was merely relieving criminals of their ill-gotten gains, and putting it to better use. Like paying for her apartment, and heating bills. And food. Mostly food.

(What? She had a fast metabolism).

But Falcon felt bad enough about it that when she found an old woman sleeping on a bench in the park, she flew down and silently deposited some bills into the woman’s coat pocket.

“Oi!” only the old woman was not as sleepy as she appeared. As soon as she sensed a presence, the woman snapped up, grabbing for the offending wrist and catching it in the midst of holding the cash. “What the hell?”

Falcon was so surprised she didn’t say anything. The woman frowned at the cash, her other hand still raised with an old cane in hand. Perhaps to ward off anyone else who might attempt to steal from her. The woman squinted up at Falcon, asking, “What is this?”

Before Falcon could say anything, the woman gasped, “Augh! You’re Falcon! Killer! Please, I didn’t do anything wrong, I was just sleeping here, I swear –!”

But Falcon did not wage war with the homeless. She withdrew her hand from the woman’s grip, who quickly let go in fear. Did she think Falcon would hurt her? Falcon didn’t like that everyone was so afraid of her, but she knew she shouldn’t be surprised, especially not after all her attempts to come off as more intimidating.

Without a word, Falcon dropped the wad of green on the woman’s lap, taking a step back and turning away. As she unsheathed her wings, the woman called out, “Holy smokes! Is that real? Thank you!”

Falcon allowed herself a small smile before taking off.

 

* * *

 

 

I have never been popular before. Today, however, I got to know how it was like.

People talked about me. Not _to_ me, but to their friends, behind their hands, in whispers and glances they thought I wouldn’t notice. The rumors (more than usual) had spread since yesterday. I was the savior of all detention kids.

“Did you hear...?”

“Pulled the fire alarm...”

“No one even saw...”

“Like a ghost...”

“Not even the security cameras caught it...”

I had to say, I was pretty pleased with myself. Who knew it took an act of flagrant rule-breaking to get noticed around here?

“So, is it true?” Gwen appeared at my side, eyebrow cocked. She seemed amused, if not a little suspicious, about the matter at hand. “Did you really pull the fire alarm to get out of detention?”

“Uh, no,” I said, not very convincingly. Gwen, daughter of the police chief, was not to be fooled.

Her eyes went wide and she smacked my arm. “Amy! I can’t believe it! Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in when you get caught?”

“ _When_? Who said anything about when?” I asked, frowning. “Did they find proof?”

“Not that I know of,” she shrugged her shoulders, orange puffy jacket making slight squeaky sounds. “But seriously, what’s up with you? First you break Astor Sloane’s arm, get detention, then you’re skipping, and now you’re _breaking out_ of school? What’s going on, Amy? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“It’s nothing,” I tried to play it off as easygoing, carefree, even though that was the exact opposite of how I was feeling these past few weeks. “I swear. It’s like what those therapist people say: I’m going through a phase. Trying to discover who I am by experimenting with different identities.”

Specifically the superhero kind. But that usually wasn’t something you could share with a clique of friends.

Gwen still wasn’t buying it. As we headed off to class, she was halfway to giving me the Look. “Sure, Ames, sure. But I don’t think breaking school rules and risking expulsion is the right identity for you. My dad would be so ticked if I did anything like that.”

Maybe it was her intention, maybe it wasn’t, but there was the hidden message that I didn’t have anyone to tell me to stop. No Dad. No Mom. No one with authority in my life to warn me I was going too far, that could ground me and give me a curfew they could enforce. So I said, “Look, don’t worry about it, all right? I’m just stressing about the finals coming up. I don’t want to bomb my Shakespeare test.”

“Ah, yes, your arch nemesis,” Gwen nodded in understanding. It seemed to distract her from the problem at hand. At least it was believable. “Almost forgot about him. Still haunting you from beyond the grave?”

“The Bard is a persistent bast –” I was interrupted by a loud buzzing noise as the PA system came to life. Throughout the halls, the principal’s voice rang, “ _Amelia Fletcher to the Principal’s Office, Amelia Fletcher to the Principal’s Office, please._ ”

Gwen looked up, her eyebrows furrowing. “Hmm, I wonder what she wants with you?”

I did not fail to catch the sarcasm veiled in her tone. “No idea. I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

“Well, if you want my advice,” Gwen said, casting me one final look before heading off to her class alone – the Principal’s office being in the entirely opposite direction. “Plead the Fifth!”

“Noted!” I called back before making the lonely and nerve-wracking trek down the stairwell, footsteps echoing like gunshots. I crossed all my fingers, hoping that my luck wasn’t really this bad. I put the phone back! That must count for _some_ karma points, right?

The office was on the first floor, the secretary letting me inside. Principal Elsa Randall was waiting for me at her desk, hands folded across the ink mat as though she had some sort of speech prepared. I wasn’t surprised when I sat down that she started talking immediately.

“Well, Amelia –” she said, but I cut her off.

“Don’t call me that,” I said, before realizing that Principal Randall was probably the last person I wanted to be rude to at the moment. “Um, sorry. Just Fletcher, please.”

“All right then,” Principal Randall took a deep breath, not looking too peeved. She probably dealt with more difficult students than me. She was young-ish, I suppose, mid-forties with dyed blonde hair. She always had painted nails and wore pantsuits that always seemed a little too professional for a high school setting. “Miss Fletcher, then? Okay. Well, it seems that you’ve been the talk of the town today, Miss Fletcher. The cat’s meow, as they say.”

“Who does?” I asked, tilting my head. I didn’t know why I was being so sassy. Maybe my good mood was affecting how I treated the authority figures in my life: with less respect. I could see why some of them like the quiet kids better.

“You know what I mean,” Principal Randall replied, twisting her lips like she just swallowed a lemon. Yeah, she didn’t appreciate that comment. “So, you want to tell me why you’re so popular all of a sudden? Why the fire alarm went off yesterday afternoon, during the detention you were attending and conveniently let out of an hour before it ended.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” I just shrugged and made a face, clasping my hands in my lap. “I was in the bathroom. Everyone will say that, from the detention I was in, they can attest to that. And the fire alarm? Scared the crap out of me.”

Principal Randall leaned forward on her desk, eyes squinting as if she could somehow wheedle the truth out of me if she looked stern enough. “I don’t think that’s everything you want to tell me, Miss Fletcher.”

“Uh, I told you the truth, so yeah, that’s everything.”

“Really?” Principal Randall said, her brow drawing down, lips matching the movement. I had to keep myself from smiling at her frustration. What kind of girl did she think I was? Keeping secrets was my forte. “And you have nothing else to do with the events yesterday? Nothing at all?”

I paused, considering my next move. I knew what she wanted and I knew I had to get out of here as cleanly as possible. I had to dissuade her from pushing the point, from going after it and possibly ruining my life. I wasn’t stupid. She had no proof. I would not show up on any security cam pulling the alarm because I didn’t do it with my hands.

So I took a deep breath and said in the most insulted tone I could muster: “Principal Randall, are you trying to insinuate that it was _me_ who pulled the fire alarm? You know, it’s a punishable crime, with a fine, to do that when there’s not actually a fire, and I would _never_ do such a thing. I mean, unless you have verifiable proof that I did it, and not word of mouth from a bunch of easily excitable teenagers who are _very good_ at exaggerating...I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Principal Randall blinked at me, taking a second to just absorb all that. She sniffed, raising her chin and sitting back in her seat, admitting silent defeat. “All right, Miss Fletcher. I...believe you. But I suggest you change that attitude, it won’t get you very far.”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile, standing up and heading straight for the door. Glad that was over quick.

Yet, just as I was about to turn the knob, Principal Randall spoke up behind me. “Wait, Miss Fletcher. You do know that you need twenty hours of community service to graduate, correct? I noticed on your file that you don’t have the required amount extracurricular hours.”

“Oh, really?” I said, throwing her a look over my shoulder, not even turning around. “Must have slipped my mind. I’ll work on it.”

“Yes, please add that to the already growing list,” Principal Randall said, her politeness barely hiding the disguised insult. I went back to opening the door, and just as I was about to close it behind me, she called out one more time, “And one last thing!”

“Yeah?” I asked, trying not to roll my eyes as I looked back one last time.

“Well played, Miss Fletcher.” Principal Randall was smirking, hand in the air as she twirled a pen in her fingers. I already knew that I had just made myself an addition to her record of troublemakers. “But it was just a fluke. Next time it happens, we _will_ find something.”

I didn’t even bother with subtlety. I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Good luck with that, ma’am.”


	9. Nolens Volens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best friends are the worst.
> 
> Re-edited as of 10/11/14
> 
> Please read and review :D

**Chapter Nine**

**Nolens Volens**

* * *

“Amy? Earth to Amy! Are you there?”

I jolted, shaking my head and lifted away from the hand supporting my chin. Blinking rapidly, I looked around, having forgotten where I was. Who was talking to me? Who were all these people? What’s with all the smells?

Oh. Right. The Silver Spoon.

Gwen was waving a hand in front of my face. “Hey, there you are, Space Cadet. Thought I lost you for a second. Is everything all right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, shaking my head again and tucking a stray lock behind my ear. I tried to sound casual, like I totally hadn’t gotten lost in my own thoughts again. “Sure, everything’s cool. Why do you ask...?”

God, I sounded so awkward. Gwen just gave me the Look, clearly not convinced by my poor acting skills. Even a layman could spot an uninspired performance.

She said, “You’ve been really out of it lately. I mean, I know you’re not the most talkative person but you could at least hold up your half of the conversation when we hang out. And I’ve seen that look on your face before. Something’s bugging you.”

Gwen’s Look must have x-ray vision, because she could see right into my head. I looked down at the table, at my untouched coffee. I didn’t like coffee, but I ordered it since that seemed to be what you’d do when you’re at a cafe like the Silver Spoon. The caffeine gave me a buzz I didn’t need, made my already super senses too sensitive and sent my radar on the fritz.

I pushed the mug away from me and replied, “It’s no big deal. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. Homework, money, the usual, I guess. Aunt May wants me to move back into the house.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Gwen said, too nonchalant to be neutral on the idea. She gave me a significant look. “It might be nice to live with your family again. She probably thinks you’re too young to live on your own. My dad thinks so, too.”

“Aw, you told your dad?” I made a face, running a hand through my hair. Of course Gwen told her dad, the Chief of the freaking NYPD. If there was one guy who could enforce my current housing, it would be him. “Why’d you have to do that, Gwen? It’s not exactly something I post on Facebook.”

“I know, but it’s not like he doesn’t care or anything,” Gwen replied, her brow furrowing. Maybe she felt guilty, but then again Gwen didn’t hide too much from her dad. Or maybe he was just a really good interrogator and Gwen cracked under pressure, I didn’t know. “And that neighborhood...it’s kind of scary. A lot of crime in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, tapping my fingers on the table and looking out the window, trying to find something to distract myself, to change the conversation. “But it doesn’t bother me. Who’s going to go out of their way to rob a tiny tenth-floor apartment?”

Gwen sighed, giving me a frustrated look. “That’s not the point. I – and by that, I mean my dad – thinks that it’s too dangerous for you to keep living there. And you don’t even have a working phone if anything bad happens. As soon as you’re gone, you might as well be dead to the world because no one can contact you.”

“I can handle myself,” I had to keep myself from snorting; otherwise Gwen might start to get ticked. She didn’t like it when I didn’t take these problems seriously. I’d seen Peter make enough mistakes to know not to do the same. “Trust me, I’ve been living there since I was born, I know what I’m doing.”

“Doing what now?” said an entirely new voice.

We looked up at the red-haired girl who had suddenly appeared at the table, dressed in a hat and down coat. Mary-Jane smiled at us, giving a little wave and saying, “You mind if I sit?”

“No, its fine,” Gwen and I said at the same time. I sidled over, allowing Mary-Jane to sit next to me. She seemed entirely oblivious to the conversation at hand. “Where’d you come from?”

“Oh, you know, just walking around, appreciating New York in all its gritty glory,”  
Mary-Jane just shrugged and flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Trying to get away from all the drama of life.”

 _Don’t we all_ , I thought to myself, sitting back in my seat.

“Any particular drama you're trying to get away from?” Gwen asked.

“Oh, you know,” Mary-Jane sighed, twirling some red hair around her finger, looking rather glum. “The whole Liz/Flash thing.”

“They’re still together?” I asked, before taking a sip of my drink. The coffee sent a bitter taste on my tongue that almost made me recoil. “I thought Liz was with Peter or...something...”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Gwen added. I could tell from the look on her face that learning that the Liz/Peter thing may not be real had her relieved.

“Nope, they’re still official.” Mary-Jane shrugged, making a face. “Which is too bad, I actually kind of liked him.”

Gwen and I exchanged looks of alarm. I turned back to Mary-Jane and asked, “You mean...Flash? You like Flash Thompson?”

I had hoped maybe Mary-Jane had been referring to Peter, on the off chance I misunderstood her, but no. Of course not. Why go for geeky Parker when you can have über-macho Thompson? Mary-Jane just smiled and said, “He’s actually kind of sweet, once you get to know him.”

“Well, you’ve clearly met an imposter, because ‘sweet’” Gwen used air quotes here, “Is not the word I’d used to describe him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He used to bully Peter!” Gwen exclaimed, apparently frustrated that this wasn't reason enough to hate Flash. Mary-Jane had only started attending Midtown, so I wasn’t nearly as surprised that she didn’t know. "At least until he got that growth spurt."

“Well, people can change,” Mary-Jane said, looking somewhat concerned that the Flash she liked was also a jerk.

“Not people like him,” Gwen muttered under her breath.

Mary-Jane inhaled and I gripped the edge of the table in apprehension for the imminent fight, but she surprised me when she sighed, “I guess we’ll see, then. Amy, you’ve been quiet, any drama in your life you want to vent about?”

“You don’t want to hear the things I’d like to vent about,” I said, chuckling to myself, half awkward and half wishing for the attention to go away. “Just take my word for it.”

“Well, now you've intrigued me!” Mary-Jane fixed me with a dazzling smile. I could see why Peter got so flustered around her. The way she looked at you made you feel like the most important person in the world. “I have to know – what is it? A boyfriend?”

I choked on the coffee I had swallowed when she said that. Gwen burst into laughter, either because my expression was funny or the idea of me having a boyfriend was ridiculous.

I shook my head, managing to keep the coffee down as I shot Gwen a look. “Uh, no, no boyfriend. No thank you.”

“Really? I think you and that other guy, what’s his name? He just got back from Europe - oh, right, Harry Osborn! You two would look cute together.” Mary-Jane said, nudging my side with an accompanying wink. “I mean, you’re friends already.”

“Well, yeah, but...” I said, trying to find the right words and not stutter. If I stuttered, then MJ would think I was lovestruck; because that’s how the characters always acted in those Rom-Coms, when talking about the people they liked.

Not that I liked Harry. I mean, I did, he’s my friend, but not in _that_ way. And, now that I realized it, I hadn’t spoken to him since he returned. I should probably get on that. “He’s just a friend. I can’t....I don’t see him that way. At all. Never.”

“Oh, too bad,” MJ shrugged in disappointment. Well, at least she wasn’t trying to convince me I was lying to myself. That happened in Rom-Coms a lot, too. “It would have been so romantic. The sheltered rich-boy and streetwise city-girl, two people living opposite lives who realize they have more in common than they thought.”

“Well, we kind of do, that’s why we’re friends,” I said, wishing that pointing out the obvious didn’t make me feel so stupid. “And it would never be so movie-perfect. Besides, boys are not really a priority right now.”

“You know what I think?” Mary-Jane leaned in, quirking an eyebrow. Suspicious, I leaned away, watching her with a frown as she poked me in the arm and said, “I think you’re afraid.”

“What? No!” The idea sounded so absurd that I laughed. “I’m not afraid of boys!”

“Not boys, dummy,” Mary-Jane rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She waved at the barista at the counter, holding up two fingers and saying, “Two mochachinos, Jimmy! Anyways,” she turned back to me, “I think you’re afraid of romantic relationships. You’re afraid of getting your feelings hurt. Someone hurt you in the past. Who was it?”

I froze. While not necessarily wrong, Mary-Jane’s assumption caught me by surprise. Images of Eddie flashed in my mind; him smiling, helping me with homework, those wild motorcycle rides through the city. All those times I felt anxious around him, before he ever really noticed me. Playing football, defending Puny Pete (back when that name still applied), graduating. The memory of Eddie giving the helmet that would eventually help turn me into Falcon played in my mind, as clear as though it happened yesterday.

Then the rest came after that. Eddie consumed by anger, hatred, revenge as the Symbiote took over. If Peter was bad, then Eddie was a thousand times worse. He wanted to hurt Peter and I by hurting the people we cared about. Old friends didn’t matter. We had to suffer the same way he did. Having to fight my first crush, who wanted to kill me?

How do I answer a question like that?

“He was just some jerk,” Gwen jumped in, saving me from the awkward silence. I threw her a grateful look. She knew just as well as I did what the truth was. Venom had used her as bait, was going to kill her to get back at Peter and me. “But he’s not important anymore, right?”

“Right,” I confirmed, looking back to Mary-Jane with a more confident smile. Then for safe measure I added, “And I’m just too busy right now. Anything ‘romantic’ will just be another burden for me to deal with.”

Mary-Jane eyed me, apparently suspicious about Gwen intervening on my behalf. I didn’t think MJ was an idiot, I had a feeling she knew that the topic was a little too sensitive to share with a virtual stranger. But she played it cool and said, “Okay, I believe you. But you shouldn’t knock before you try it, Amy.”

“I’m good, thanks.”I replied in a cool tone. I didn’t care how much Mary-Jane tried to convince me, there was no way she was going to get me on a date. “There’s not a single guy out there who I’ll be interested in.”

“Be careful what you say, Amy,” Mary-Jane said with a sly smile. As the two cups were placed down in front of her, she picked one up and took a sip. “I’m going to make you eat those words.”

I didn’t actually think she would.

 

* * *

 

 

Falcon was still stewing over Mary-Jane’s words as she flew over New York City. She didn’t quite know how far the girl would go to hold that promise, but Falcon didn’t doubt her determinism. There was an odd feeling in her stomach that Mary-Jane was going to find _something_ to screw her over with.

But she pushed those thoughts out of her mind. Now was not the time to be thinking about school, or boys, or her social life. Right now was the time Falcon devoted to protecting the city and hunting down bad guys, and she did that best when she was absolutely focused.

Of course, that was when she spotted Smoke in an office building.

More specifically, he was breaking into Kings & Sons, a high-security bank for some very wealthy people. It took all of zero imagination for Falcon to wonder what he was doing there.

For a brief second, Falcon considered letting Smoke go. She hadn’t seen him since the argument and she really didn’t want to rehash that little scene again. As she flew by, Falcon thought how nice it would be if she could go one night without anything extraordinary happening.

Then she heaved a sigh, resigning herself to the fact that she had to stop Smoke from stealing whatever he was about to steal. Falcon couldn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of her responsibilities.

Of course, it would be just like Smoke to make it personal.

He was in the middle of breaking into a giant steel door – pressing buttons on some high-tech lock pad with touch-screen numbers. It seemed only to respond to the right fingerprint, which was probably giving him a host of problems.

Falcon managed to sneak up to him, opening a window and slipping inside. She moved past the desks, the chairs and benches into the smaller room beyond. The whole area was quite modern, with carpet flooring and black and white furniture. Most of the walls were glass or metal. There didn’t seem to be an elevator nearby, but she did spot a door leading to a stairway.

Leaning against the wall, Falcon folded her arms and watched Smoke for a couple seconds as he struggled to bypass the fingerprint scan.

“Having any luck?” Falcon asked out loud, the scrambler making her voice sound deep and distorted. She smirked when Smoke jumped and whipped around. “Must be airtight if you can’t get in your usual way.”

“Oh, it’s you!” Smoke looked surprised, then ticked. “Jeez, I thought you were someone else. What’s with the new voice box? Were those dulcet tones of yours not striking fear into the hearts of villains like you wanted?”

Falcon lost her smirk. “Very funny. So, you wanna tell me what you’re after before I set off the alarms and ruin another big score for you?”

“You’re the reason I’ve been getting all the worst jobs,” Smoke replied, scowling and motioning to the door behind him. He looked the same as last time, in the same black get-up, leather jacket and domino mask, curly mop of hair as messy as usual. How did he manage to make that look so good when there was no way he took a comb to that? “So bad, in fact, that now my clients won’t even tell me what I’m trying to steal in case I screw up again. Which I won’t, for the record.”

“I think you’re overestimating your skills there, pal,” Falcon said, pushing away from the wall. With a flick of her hand the alarm system went off, triggered by a button she located underneath the abandoned security desk in front of the steel door. In the back of her mind, she wondered where the guard went. “Because there is no way in hell–”

Before she could finish her sentence, the floor started to rumble beneath Falcon’s feet.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Falcon looked around, surprised, as all the entrances in the room were suddenly cut off by dropping walls of metal – covering every window, every door, even the vent shafts in the ceiling.

She frowned, dropping her arms. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“Oh, good, you’ve ensured that neither of us will get out of here alive,” Smoke grumbled, a hand going to his forehead. “Good work, hero.”

“You know what,” Falcon threw him a dirty look. “Rocks and glass houses, buddy. Bad criminals shouldn’t criticize good security. Besides, I can break through those walls, easy. It’s nothing I’ve never done before...”

Falcon was just making her way back to the windows when all of a sudden, a turret popped out of the ceiling, taking all of two seconds to aim at her. “ _Intruder alert. Target acquired._ ”

“Whoa!” Falcon threw herself out of the way just in time to avoid getting turned into human Swiss cheese. She ducked behind a desk, throwing it over to protect her from the onslaught of bullets. Several more turrets appeared, all along the ceiling, firing not just at her, but at Smoke as well. Well, _through_ him, really.

“I hope you know how to disable those!” Smoke retorted, his back against the steel door.

She managed to rip one from its post, but was alarmed to find it replaced by another. What kind of bank was this? Falcon knew Kings & Sons was popular with the rich and their priceless valuables, but this seemed incredibly excessive. Perhaps it was pertaining to the contents inside the safe. Now Falcon wanted to know what it could be that required automated gunfire to protect it. “Yeah, um, slight setback! I’m going to need a better place to hide until we can find a way to shut them off!”

“Well, don’t look at me!” Smoke countered, looking more ticked than scared about the fact that they were facing an onslaught of gunfire. “I’m not going anywhere until I get what’s inside that safe.”

Falcon looked around, taking one look at the giant steel door before inspiration struck. “Oh, great idea!”

“What is?” Smoke threw her a bewildered look, moving out of the way as Falcon lunged across the room, diverting gunfire with one hand and reaching for the security pad with the other.

Falcon may not have been a hacker, but opening locked doors was always a talent of hers. Taking cover behind the main desk in front of the safe, Falcon put all her concentration into the safe’s mechanism – thick bolts that held it to the wall inside the metal, which was nearly three feet thick. It was one of the heaviest things she had ever moved and it took all her strength to release the switch that held the gears in place, make those move and slid the inner bolts back, before finally pulling the entire door open. At least it had smooth hinges.

_Pfft!_

The sound of stale air behind released was music to her ears. Smoke uttered an incoherent cry of victory before ducking inside, followed closely by Falcon. The bullets followed them, leaving deep, smoking holes in the floor and walls, before pinging uselessly off the giant metal door as Falcon closed it behind them.

The inside of the safe wasn’t much of a safe, at least not how Falcon envisioned it. Her radar had told her that there was some sort of hallway back here, but she had been too distracted by the guns outside to really pay attention. Indeed, the hall was about ten meters long, made of thick, black marble, with single bulbs of lights going all the way down to another door at the far end. It seemed less formidable than the one Falcon just opened.

She didn’t consider it a bad idea until Smoke said, “I hope you can open that door again, because there is no other way out.”  
  
“Relax,” Falcon remained at ease. The door was no more complicated from behind than in front. She had watched enough _Mission: Impossible_ movies to know that this would be a cinch. “We’ve probably got about ten minutes before authorities arrive and get through that door. Now, let’s go see what your clients want so badly that needs military-grade weaponry to defend it.”

“Really?” Smoke didn’t seem convinced. He crossed his arms, eyeing her with suspicion. “I figured you’d be so glad if I was finally put behind bars – I bet it’d be the happiest day of your life.”  
  
“You understand me so well, it’s like your reading my mind,” Falcon shot back in a sing-song voice. Or it would have been sing-song if her scrambler didn’t make her sound like a pissed-off robot. She motioned down the hall. “But I’m more concerned with what’s down there and who your client is. Something tells me that they’ll be a lot more trouble than you ever will be.”

“I’m touched,” Smoke mumbled as Falcon started making her way down the hall.

Their footsteps echoed off the walls, incredibly loud and strangely terrifying. After closing the safe door, all sounds of gunfire had been cut off. Falcon was still aware of her surroundings, but the quietness of the place disturbed her. If she were in a movie, this would be the part right before all the bad stuff started happening. So why hadn’t it already? It just felt wrong that nothing was showing up on her radar.

“Stop,” Falcon held up her hand, halting in mid-step about half-way down the hall.

“What is it?”

“Doesn’t it seem weird to you?” She asked him, setting her foot down behind the tile she had been about to step on. “It’s too easy.”

“Not complaining,” Smoke replied.

“C’mon, think about it,” Falcon urged, knowing that Smoke was better than this. He knew more about being a thief than her; surely he sensed something was up as well. “A multitude of security features on the outside but nothing on the inside? Don’t tell me you don’t find anything wrong with that.”

There was second of silence before Smoke finally said, “Yeah, that _is_ weird. Usually I’d expect lasers or toxic gas, which normally wouldn’t get in my way at any rate; but it’s never this boring.”  
  
“Exactly.” Falcon said, waving her hand over the spot she was just about to step on. “This is why there’s a pressure plate right...here.”

She had picked up the strange mechanism on her radar and immediately guessed at what it was. Sure enough, when Falcon manipulated the sensor with her mind, there came a large grating sound, immediately followed by the floor in front of her opening up, and a burst of flame exploding to the ceiling.

“Whoa!” Falcon jumped back before the heat could melt the fabric of her suit. The flames were gone in an instant, and the pressure plate rose back up to its resting position. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Well, it’s nice to know you’re not as freaked out about this as I am,” Smoke said, jumping over the pressure plate. “And because you closed the door behind us, they’ll hurt me as much as they’ll hurt you.”

“Unlikely,” Falcon replied, deciding it best to stay in front of Smoke in case he did something stupid. She kept her radar narrowed and highly-sensitive, looking out for even the tiniest of detail that might give away another trap. She grabbed Smoke’s arm just as he was about to step on another pressure plate. “Look out!”

They stumbled back just as two slabs of wall on either side came together with a mighty crash. It was so powerful in fact, that the air practically exploded, knocking the two supers off their feet. Had they been even a couple inches forward, they would have been squashed flat. Then, like two old ladies that forgot what they were doing, the walls slid quietly back into their place, completely unrecognizable from the rest of the hallway.

“Well, that could’ve been messy,” Smoke said, swallowing what was probably a cry of fear. He threw her an uncertain look, “Um, thanks.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Falcon said, breathless. The walls had moved so fast that she had barely a second of reaction time, and the force of their blow resonated on her radar, sending jitters down her arms and legs. She was a little shaky getting up, but shook off the feeling and moved onward relentless.

There were several other traps they barely managed to avoid. There was a pit of acid they managed to jump over, and a guillotine-like blade that dropped from the ceiling, nearly slicing them in half. The lasers Smoke mentioned earlier finally made an appearance, bright red lights that moved across the floor and burned everything in its path. The two managed to dodge through the lasers without incident; the only casualty being a lock of Smoke’s hair.

The end singed and made him scowl in distaste. Falcon teased, failing to smother her laughter, “Don’t worry, your head is as overinflated as ever.”

“You’re one to talk,” Smoke retorted, shaking his head and heading towards the plain windowless door, now only a few feet away. “For someone who hates thieves and burglars, you’d make for an excellent one. But of course you’re better than that, aren’t you? You don’t steal people’s things, you just ruin their lives.”

Falcon scowled, affronted. She did not expect her insult to be turned so quickly on her. Unable to come up with a sufficient comeback, Falcon just glared at Smoke as he walked past her.

He managed to open the door without much effort – a simple turn of the knob, as it were. When it opened, nothing popped out to kill them, which was a nice change of pace. Inside was an incredibly dark room. On sight alone Falcon couldn’t tell how large it was, but her radar told her it was quite small, the ceiling curving upwards with walls only a meter away from the center. That was where a black pedestal stood. On that black pedestal was a black box – standing in the center of a spotlight high in the ceiling, the only source of light in the entire room.

“Any traps?” Smoke asked her, hesitating to walk in.

“I’m not picking up on any.” Falcon replied. She sent a small wave of air across the floor, picking up the dust that had settled there. It didn’t set off any triggers or sensors, and she deemed her statement valid. “It looks safe.”

Together they headed inside, walking up to the pedestal. The room felt soundproof, as their footsteps felt muffled even though they were walking on tile. Falcon came to a stop several feet away from the pedestal, feeling wary, but Smoke went right up to it, hands rising to touch it.

“What is it?” Falcon asked, peering at the smooth black box. It had no lock, no number pad. It looked so plain for all the security measures.

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Smoke threw her a sly grin. With delicate touch, he lifted the lid and pulled out the object inside. It was round, the size of the grapefruit, and perfectly spherical. She didn’t know what it was made of, but it seemed to be a black stone, matching the same type of material as the box it was kept in.

Falcon tilted her head, unimpressed. “A _rock_? We came all this way for a _rock_?”

“Yeah, a bit anticlimactic,” Smoke seemed disappointed as well. The rock in question looked like something on might find in a river. “It’s almost funny.”

“Let me see that,” Falcon went over and snatched the rock from Smoke’s hand, refusing to believe that that’s all it was. It was surprisingly heavy – Falcon nearly dropped what felt like the weight of a bowling ball. “The only way I’ll laugh is if the winning lottery ticket is in it.”

“To which I propose we split 70-30,” Smoke held up a finger. “If that were such the case.”

Falcon looked up at him, affronted. She was in the middle of trying to twist the rock open; it was surprisingly resilient. “Wait, 70-30? That’s not fair! Why do I get the cheap cut?"

“Because I did most of the work, that’s why,” Smoke replied, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms in a smug manner. He smirked at her attempts to open the rock, “Besides, if it weren't for me, you wouldn’t even know this exists.”

“You son of a...” Falcon couldn't finish the sentence because the rock was taking too much effort. With a final huff, she threw the rock back to Smoke, who caught it in surprise. With the combined weight and strength of her throw, it was lucky Smoke didn’t hurt himself. “Damn it! It won’t open. I hope this stupid thing is worth something to get angry about.”

“Well, it’s worth me getting paid half a mill, so I’d say so,” Smoke replied, throwing the rock up in the air and catching it again. “I don’t know _what_ it is, but as long as I get my check...”

Something flickered at the edge of Falcon’s radar. It was coincided with a whisper, the tiniest sound of movement. She whipped around, caught off guard. So far, Falcon had assumed she and Smoke were alone in the room. Her skin tingled with the sensation of being watched and she looked back at Smoke, who just eyed her in confusion. To him she asked, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Smoke frowned at her. He stopped tossing the ball in the air and got up from the wall, looking around. At least he was taking her seriously, “Did you sense something?”

Falcon stretched her radar out. How did that thing, whatever it was, escape her notice? She couldn’t sense it now, even though she knew it was there, somewhere. Out of instinct, she lowered her stance, along with her voice. “I don’t think we’re alone.”

“Talk about a moment killer,” Smoke said, earning a look of annoyance from Falcon. She didn’t even know that _meant_ , but she didn’t like the way he said it. He seemed perturbed when her look lasted longer than necessary. “What? I was just joking.”

Falcon froze. She was no longer looking at him. Her gaze had drifted upwards, to the pair of glowing eyes hovering over Smoke’s head.

“Okay, I get it, it wasn’t funny,” Smoke said, sighing and rolling his eyes. He seemed to be entirely oblivious to the situation. “Will you just quit it already?”

But Falcon didn’t move. She was trying to figure out what it was that seemed to be hovering in the air, nearly invisible to her radar. It was humanoid, that was all she could figure. She was trying to figure out how to get Smoke out of the way without alarming the creature and turning it aggressive.

“Falcon?” Smoke seemed to understand that something was wrong. His expression changed as the realization dawned on him. “There’s something behind me, isn’t there?”

As if to answer that question, a long, low growl filled the room. Smoke jolted, throwing himself out of the way just in time for the attacker to drop down and smash a crater into the spot he had just been standing in.

Falcon saw its fist first – white and metallic, followed by the rest of the body as it stood up. The arm was not human, but the shoulder it was attached to was. The two stumbled back as the person...thing stepped forward, into the only light in the room, revealing a man with not just one metal arm, but two; his face was covered in a mask, painted like a skull with two glowing red dots in their sockets. In each hand, the man carried a gun.

He raised both of them, one aimed at each trespasser.

Falcon only had one word to say:

“Run!”


	10. Natus Occidere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it that whenever someone makes an oath of celibacy, that suddenly there are suitors jumping in left and right? Fate must have a funny sense of humor. Or just hates single people.
> 
> Re-edited as of 10/11/14

**Chapter Ten**

**Natus Occidere**

* * *

 

As it turned out, all it took was a really good push to get those thick metal doors open.

Falcon supposed she could have just forced her way into the safe, through sheer strength of her telekinetic abilities. Then again, she wasn’t there to make Smoke’s job easy, and she had no idea that a rock would be guarded by a goddamn Terminator hell-bent on killing them both.

Together, she and Smoke ducked and dodged, weaving through the traps they just past with relative ease. Thanks to massive property damage via telekinesis, Falcon must have put a dent into the security system, enough that the airtight containment was, well, no longer airtight. Smoke was finally allowed to phase through otherwise dangerous projectiles and walls, and disappeared into shadow at will. He was gone before Falcon made it to the door on the other end.

She slammed through it with all the mental force she could summon, throwing her shoulder into the metal to help punctuate her thoughts. The door gave almost instantaneously, and she went through, only to slam the door back into place, just as the Terminator (what else was she going to call it? It was like every nightmare after watching those movies come true) was about to charge through the opening.

There was a loud _WHOMPH!_ as the door shut once more, locking into place. There was a subsequent boom as the Terminator smashed into metal, leaving a large indent on the other side.

“The traps didn’t even slow him down!” Falcon cried, her heart pounding out of sheer terror. The bullets had not phased the cyborg, he had moved too fast for the wall, and the lasers, blades and other assorted threats did absolutely nothing. The man literally _ran through fire_. “Holy...he’s going to break down that door! What is he?”

“You really think that’s important right now?” Smoke said, materializing from the shadows. He still had the rock in his hand. “In my book, we leave now and ask questions later!”

Without waiting for Falcon’s reply, he grabbed her wrist and they phased through the floor just as the giant metal door was thrown off its hinges. Falcon barely remembered to hold her breath before the sensation of carpet, wood, and metal traveled through her body. The feeling of her molecules getting shifted around was, not surprisingly, very uncomfortable.

When they hit solid ground again several floors down, Falcon finally managed to gasp and say through her nausea, “I hate it when you do that!”  
  
“I know.” Smoke flashed a grin, just as the ceiling started to shake and scatter dust to the floor. He looked up and said, “Well, you’ve got about ten seconds before he gets through. I’d better fly if I were you.”  
  
“And what about you?” she demanded. “You’re just going to leave me here to fight him off by myself?”

“Hey, I’ve done my quota of service today!” Smoke replied, starting to turn translucent and disappearing into another wall. He gave her one last smile, saying, “Thieves gonna steal, boy’s gotta eat. You know how it is. Ciao!”

And he was gone once more.

 _Typical_ , Falcon thought to herself, just as cracks started to form over her head. She had just leapt out of the way before it came crumbling down on top of her.

The Terminator slammed into the ground, his metal fist punching a crater into the floor and nearly going through to the other side. Falcon had just picked up a chair, considering throwing it at him to somehow delay the cyborg – then realized that if fire wasn’t going to stop this guy, a chair would mean nothing.

Instead, she turned and threw it at the nearest window. It shattered, with her following the glass a split second later.

Wings unsheathing in a split second, Falcon took air and shot away from the building as fast as she could. Cold winter wind cut through her suit like a knife, sending a jolt of adrenalin through her system. Despite the obvious dangers of a booby-trapped safe, at least it was warm. Falcon quickly shook off the chill, the effort of flight keeping her blood and muscles going.

Thinking she had lost the Terminator fellow some blocks ago, Falcon was surprised when she turned around and saw him far below, still chasing after her. Like a bulldozer, this guy slammed cars and trucks out of his way like bowling pins. Stop signs and street lights fell as traffic quickly got out of his way. The few police cars that dared engage him were quickly dismantled with a mighty kick to the grill.

Falcon could only stare. Jeez, what did it take to stop this guy?

She was not about to go looking for large smelting factories with lax safety features, but right now it was sounding like a good idea. Falcon couldn’t head straight home, not with this guy following her. And even as the early strain of fatigue set in, Falcon had settled herself for another battle.

The Terminator decided to start early by jumping _at least_ thirty feet into the air, launching himself onto the rooftops and closer to Falcon. Firing with both guns, the cyborg sent bright bolts of energy in her direction.

Sensing them early, Falcon easily dodged them. She was disgruntled, not necessarily alarmed to find that he had the same weapons the White Rose did. Coincidence? Unlikely.

“Fine, you want to fight?” Falcon grumbled to herself, altering her trajectory so she was now flying straight at the cyborg. “Then let’s fight!”

The cyborg didn’t convey whether or not he was surprised by this maneuver, just let out a meager grunt when she collided with him head on, sending the man skidding across the roof and over the edge.

Falcon grabbed the nearest gun he dropped and twisted into a pile of useless metal. “One down, another to go.”

She was just about to pick up the other one when a massive boot descended on her hand, crushing it to the gravel below. Falcon cried out, looking up just to get kicked in the head.

The blow sent her tumbling back. The helmet, thankfully, did not give under the boot, but her head was still spinning when she managed to look up and see the cyborg pick his gun off the ground, dust it off, and start walking towards her. His speed was incredible – not only was he a fast enough runner to keep up with Falcon _in flight_ , but he had recovered from a blow that would otherwise incapacitate a normal human being.

He was clearly not a normal human being.

Falcon was sort of glad to make this conclusion, because that meant she didn’t have to go easy on him. This time, she didn’t have to restrain herself– a usual problem when dealing with the everyday thugs or burglars. And it was clear that it was going to take a lot more than the usual effort to take down this man.

She smiled to herself. Challenge accepted.

Getting up once more, Falcon rolled her shoulders, dispelling some of the ache from the most recent attack. The Terminator raised his remaining gun, holding it in both arms and was about to fire when Falcon flicked her hand the gun was jolted aside.

Aim disrupted, several bolts going far over her head. Falcon crouched and dodged to the right as he continued to fire automatically, ducking behind a brick chimney before the plasma could touch her.

Surprised, the cyborg stumbled and readjusted his footing, contributing to his poor aim. As Falcon deliberated on a plan of action, he loaded another charge into the weapon and was about to fire when the gun exploded in his face.

Distracted and reeling from the sudden explosion, the cyborg did not see Falcon as she flitted around the corner of the chimney. She caught him by surprise, slamming a spin kick into his chest.

Falcon nearly dropped from the pain that reverberated up her leg, gasping. She managed to knock him back a little, but the cyborg was mostly unaffected by the move. In fact, it seemed as though Falcon managed to injure _herself_ in what she now considered a very ill-thought-out maneuver. How could Falcon outfight an opponent bigger and clearly much denser than she?

Her ankle seemed to have taken most of the impact and when she stepped on it, Falcon winced in pain. Oh, good, a limp, just what she needed right now.

The Terminator, although without firearms, was not unarmed. Shaking his head, he withdrew a large, serrated knife from his belt, at least a foot in length. He held it in reverse grip, the blade opposite of his thumb.

There was a second where neither of them moved. Falcon swiped her arm, but the blade did not move from the Terminator’s cybernetic arm. This gave her pause – his grip, enhanced by the metal, was far stronger than what she was used to. Stronger than her telekinesis? Perhaps not, but Falcon didn’t get a chance to try again when he lunged at her.

Falcon dodged the first swipe but was blindsided by a feint to the side. Metal crunched against bone and she choked, the wind knocked out of her.

She managed to bring up her arm in time to keep the dagger from descending on her throat, but the weight the cyborg put into that blow sent Falcon to her knees.

She struggled for a few seconds, desperately scrambling for a way out through the suffocating lock in her chest. Falcon felt herself starting to panic as the cyborg managed to force his blade closer and closer to her neck. Her arm was shaking from the effort of holding him back, and her telekinesis had no effect on his inorganic arms.

 _Thinkthinkthinkthink_ , Falcon finally managed to suck in a grateful breath of air, before her arm gave way to the blade.

However, instead of letting it fall on her, Falcon rolled out of the way, letting the arm descend over her back as she slipped by the cyborg. The cyborg fell, losing his balance from the sudden action, and barely managed to catch himself before Falcon slammed a foot into his kneecap, which made a satisfying cracking sound and finally eliciting a howl of pain from the seemingly implacable man.

Falcon managed a grim smile. It seemed that he wasn’t _entirely_ robotic, and his legs were not as indestructible as his arms.

She turned and stomped on the blade, preventing the cyborg from picking it up. He did so anyways, in turn bending the blade and rendering it useless.

Falcon jumped back as the man regained his footing – he, too, had a limp, but was managing surprisingly well considering he had a shattered kneecap. Either he had a regenerative ability like she did (Falcon wasn’t counting on it), or this man really was part Terminator. How much pain could this man take?

He threw the bent knife away, raising his hands and curling them into fists. His stance lowered, feet placed wider apart. Falcon imitated the movement, finally glad that she could fight _her_ way.

The cyborg threw the first punch.

Falcon dodged, slamming the heel of her palm in the side of the man’s face, cracking the skull mask and twisting his neck.

She meant to slip by him, but the cyborg saw her coming. He swept his leg, catching her ankle with his foot and sent her to the ground. He bent to pick her up, a move she anticipated. Rolling on her back, she hauled up on her shoulders and kicked her legs into the air, her heel catching his face again as she flipped back to her feet.

Remembering that this guy could punch through solid metal and travel through buildings by busting through floors, Falcon realized that fighting on top of a residential building may not be the smartest idea. How many people were below her right now, wondering what the hell was going on up here? No doubt someone would call the police, if they didn’t come up to the roof to settle the matter themselves.

That was the last thing she needed right now. What if this man killed civilians, just for being in the way? Falcon was not going to let any more collateral damage happen if she could help it.

So, while the cyborg made to attack, Falcon weaved around him and started running, stepping onto the ledge and leaping into the air.

She hit the tarmac below, rolling to absorb the impact of her landing and get out of the way of the cyborg, which came down after Falcon. His jump wasn’t nearly as graceful, bouncing off the wall building across the alleyway, punching a hole through the brick, before slamming down onto a car below and setting off its alarm.

The car squeaked on its chassis as the Terminator rocked off it, the enter cabin crushed beneath the cratered hood. Falcon took a step back, considering her next move. At least they were out of the vicinity of any passerby, and off the street, in case this guy thought of smashing more cars (he already caused a huge traffic jam down 27th Street).

The glowing red eyes behind the mask flickered ominously, the light so bright in the dark area that it reflected off the ground. He cricked his neck from side to side, cracking bones and loosening muscles, just before he charged.

Falcon reacted on instinct. She found the nearest object on her radar and threw it at him – in this case, a Dumpster.

The hunk of metal, combined with the weight of at least two dozen bags of trash, was enough to send the cyborg flying back a good twenty feet, but he was up again in an instant.

He ripped one of the lids off of the Dumpster beside him and threw it at Falcon so hard and so fast that it was a blur she barely managed to dodge. It whistled by her like a deranged Frisbee, smashing into a wall behind her and crumpling to the ground.

He chucked the other lid at her a split second after the first, this time managing to hit her shoulder and knocking Falcon aside.

It was long enough for him to charge again, covering twenty feet in less than two seconds and wrapping a giant metal hand around her throat before Falcon could get out of the way.

Falcon gasped, the metal unrelenting as it squeezed so hard she couldn’t even speak, never mind breathe. He lifted her up like Falcon were nothing more than a sack of feathers and slammed her into the wall, forcing his hand into her trachea and almost knocking her unconscious.

As she struggled against the hand pinning her to the wall, Falcon saw that there was an inscription on the cyborg’s arm, black painted words. It took her a second to read them through her haze of suffocation.

“G-Goliath?” she choked, wondering if she was seeing things. “Is that your name?”

The man’s head jerked, as if recognizing the word. Instead of responding like a normal civilized person, he seemed to get angry, his grip tightening around Falcon’s throat to the point that she was seeing black spots. Just as she thought her windpipe might collapse, Goliath uttered a snarl of rage and pulled her back. Falcon actually thought he would let her go.

Oh, he did. By throwing her into the street.

Falcon was so dazed she didn’t even remembering flying, or hitting the ground. Her hearing was shot and head aching. She coughed several times, her throat protesting to the grip that had been around it. Falcon took in deep, painful breaths before she shakily got to her knees.

Then, her hearing kicked in, just to get an earful of noise.

_BEEEEEEEEEP!_

Falcon looked up just in time to see the headlights heading straight towards her. She threw herself out of the way, doing a backwards somersault and felt the rush of metal and burned rubber as it whipped by her.

Her throat hurt and her chest had a hard time sucking in all the air she needed. Falcon could feel the bruises around her neck forming. Hopefully they would be gone by tomorrow – that would be hard to explain to the nurse.

Or she could wear a scarf. That sounded like a reasonable solution.

These mundane thoughts brought a bit of relief to Falcon, who was still in the midst of a fight with a cyborg named Goliath. He was already emerging from the dark alleyway, appearing from the shadows like some demon bent on utter destruction.

Realizing that brute strength and metal arms immune to her powers was not something she wanted to fight anymore, Falcon unsheathed her wings again and returned to the air.

The height was reassuring. At least the guy couldn’t fly, although his leap-buildings-in-a-single-bound trick was not amusing. She looked down on Goliath, who seemed to consider using that tactic again when she telekinetically picked up one of the abandoned vehicles left from his rampage and dropped it on his head.

Falcon flapped her wings, rising higher and higher into the air. She looked around, hoping for something else to throw at Goliath when the wind picked up and nearly sent her tossing through the air.

Thankfully, the wings adjusted automatically and Falcon maintained flight. She looked up at the dark clouds above her, realizing: _a storm_?

Suddenly, it started to rain.

The sleet hit her like a ten-ton wet blanket, almost overpowering her. It took a few more seconds for the water to permeate her suit and reach her skin. Falcon jolted, her nerves going on end. _Cripes, that’s cold!_

At least it didn’t stick to her wings, like freezing rain did – despite the incredible technology of Falcon’s wings, they had a bit of an icing problem that Falcon had neither the expertise nor the resources to fix. So when the weather got bad, Falcon stayed indoors – anyone crazy enough to commit crimes in those conditions were both very brave and very stupid. She’d usually just let nature have its way with them.

Forcing her mind to forget about the cold (not easy), Falcon steeled herself for another fight with Goliath.

Only when she looked down again, he wasn’t there.

 _What_? Falcon looped around the block, trying to find where Goliath went. When she didn’t spot him, she widened her canvass to a three block radius, then five, then ten. But he was gone.

Why had he left?

Falcon didn’t know. She double-backed a couple times, to make sure he wasn’t somehow still following her, but her radar never picked up on him.

Eventually, Falcon gave up. Deciding that sleep was better than an all-nighter searching for a Terminator, she went home.

           

* * *

 

 

 

I wasn’t paying attention when I crashed into the boy with the coffee.

I had just turned a corner on my morning jog. It was an overcast Saturday, usually a time when teenagers stayed in bed until noon. Not me. This was part of my routine, how I kept myself in check. After this, a snack and meditation for an hour.

I didn’t know if the meditation actually worked or not, but I did it anyways since Bruce suggested it. I couldn’t tell if it had any physical effect on my body, or done anything to my mind. I still felt as stressed as before, as tense and as scared before I ever started. Sometimes I could feel relaxed long enough to enjoy a movie or two, but never enough to get a good night’s sleep.

Sometimes meditation didn’t work at all and I’d be stuck sitting in the lotus position, bored out of my mind and waiting for the hour to be over so I could do more important things, like fighting crime.

It didn’t make it any easier that I was still sore from the fight with Goliath the other night. I was terrified I might run into him today, in my civilian identity, and he’d recognize me. Or start a rampage. Something to ruin my day.

But I still saw nothing of him. Goliath had dropped off the map. Police scanners didn’t have anything to reveal, and the news even less informative. They didn’t even have footage of our fight, just the aftermath. It was kind of discouraging. And scary.

But I digress. I had gotten distracted by the pigeons flying overhead (wasn’t meditation supposed to help me concentrate?) and not noticing the door that just opened and the person stepping out. They, of course, didn’t see me either.

I looked around at the last second, alarmed by the sudden jump on my radar, just in time to smack straight into his chest and feel the crunch of Styrofoam between us.

The sudden heat made me jump back, flinging my hands out and pushing away from him in an instant. “Ah! Watch it!”

The boy gasped at the same time I did, dropping his cup and wringing his burnt hand to free it of the hot coffee. He shook his head, saying, “Agh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! It’s my fault. I’m the one who just walked right in front of you.”

I tried to brush off the brown stain now on the front of my jacket. At least it was waterproof, but now I smelled like coffee. Great, this was going to take forever to wash out. I tried to ease past the boy, hoping to make this a quick encounter and leave without further embarrassment, saying, “It’s all right, I’m fine. I, uh, I have to go...”

But he reached out and caught my arm, looking surprised and a little hurt. “Wait, where are you going? I just spilled coffee all over you and you’re just going to leave?”

“Uh,” I bit my lip. Man, I just wanted to finish my jog, not make this a whole scene. I stepped back, finally looking the boy in the face and was surprised by what I saw. Light blue eyes, a friendly smile, a face that made me freeze in my spot.

Huh. He was actually kind of cute.

 _What? No! Don’t get distracted!_ “Yeah. Places to go, people to see, that sort of thing.”

“You’re not even going to let me make it up to you?” the boy asked with an uncertain smile, clean white teeth in neat rows. He was tall and thin. I couldn’t tell how old the boy was but he appeared to be my age. He had a thick wool hat on and a blue jacket, looking very warm, which was the opposite I was feeling besides the stain on my jacket.

“It’s not a big deal.” I replied, keeping my tone dull and face expressionless. I had to make myself look away from that face, filled with childlike eagerness. It made him even cuter. Why was he being so persistent? “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, at least help me get you cleaned up,” the boy offered just as I moved past him. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, fine.” I muttered, turning back around to face him. I had the bad feeling that the boy would keep following me if I didn’t agree to _something_ , so I just gave in. Maybe he’ll leave me alone after this. “But I can’t hang around.”

“Deal.” The boy smiled, pulling open the door to let me in. “Come on, it’s warmer inside. How are you not freezing without a jacket on?”

Well, I was cold _now_ that I’d stopped moving. I kept my tone curt, “The cold doesn’t bother me.”  
  
“I’m sure Napoleon would disagree,” the boy laughed as I passed him through the door, motioning with his arm like some sort of butler. “After you.”

I frowned at him over my shoulder. “Was that a comment on my height?”

“What? No!” the boy replied, looking offended as he followed me inside. A little bell rung as the door closed behind us. “Napoleon was much taller. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
I just rolled my eyes and kept walking. We were in a little cafe, with window seats and retro tiles. Slow jazz played on the speakers above and I felt like I just walked into some weird beatnik scene where people had poetry slams and snapped their fingers in applause. I picked a seat by the frosted windows, covered in light condensation.

The boy went up to the condiments table to get some napkins, and asked the barista for some water. I tried not to pay him any particular attention, but my sensitive hearing betrayed me. The boy must be a regular here, because the barista asked him who the girl he ran into was. The boy explained the situation and the barista laughed, his afro bobbing up and down.

I tuned out their conversation, focusing instead on the other people inside the room, who were as normal as could be. Secretaries and office workers having a break, college students discussing lecture, a couple of kids playing _Magic_ in the back. People, who didn’t have to worry about the next super villain attack, didn’t have to think about the White Rose making their next move. They lived in a blissful, normal peace.

I felt a little jealous but didn’t dwell on it. I made this choice to be who I was, and I wasn’t going to let petty feelings get in the way.

“Here you go,” the boy returned, offering me the napkins and cup of water. I took them without a word and began dabbing at my jacket as the boy sat down in the seat opposite me. There was a new cup of coffee in his hands. “I’m Dorian, by the way.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

Dorian laughed, apparently getting the wrong message. “Uh, usually this is the part where you tell me _your_ name.”

My gaze flicked up to him. There was a second where I considered the option, then decided it better of it. I went back to cleaning my jacket without another word.

As the silence stretched, Dorian seemed to catch on to the fact that I wasn’t going to answer him. He raised an arm to scratch the back of his head, the red in his face telling of the awkwardness he was feeling. Dorian said with an uneasy chuckle, “Look, I’m not playing any angle here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just doing what any other decent human being would. That’s all, I swear.”

“Oh, I know.” I replied in a light tone. Dorian seemed nice, and I knew it was rude but I didn’t care. “I’m just not interested in making any new friends at the moment.”

“Uh-huh,” Dorian blinked, his hand falling back to the table. Either he didn’t believe me or was surprised he did. His brow furrowed. “Well, at least you’re being honest about it.”

“I’m not a very complicated person.” I replied, still looking down at my jacket.

“Really?” Dorian made a face, leaning forward on the table and propping his chin on his hand. The charmingly inquisitive look he was giving me almost made me blush, but I dug my nails into my palm to keep a straight face. He pointed a finger at me, “Because you’re acting exactly like you’ve got something to hide. There’s more to you than what meets the eye.”

“I bet you say that to all the ladies,” I shook my head. I didn’t know if that was a pick-up line or not (because no one ever tried one on me), but decided to play it safe. Still, I felt a little uncomfortable, like Dorian knew more than he was saying. But it was probably just my paranoia acting up again. It’s not like I had any experience in flirting to tell.

“I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Sure you aren’t,” I said, glancing up at Dorian to see him giving me a quizzical look. “Believe me, everything you see – that’s all there is.”

“So, you’re just a jogger girl with no name, no family, no life?” Dorian said, not buying it. He just shook his head and smiled again. “You’ve at least got to have a story. Something about yourself that makes you different from everyone else.”

 _Like super powers_? _A secret identity_? _A mother kidnapped by New York’s most vicious mafia family_? Sure, different. I told him, “Maybe I do. But you won’t get to hear it.”

I didn’t know when a group of kids came in through the door, about half a dozen or so. Their loud chatter drew some eyes, but surprisingly enough Dorian had my full attention. I didn’t notice one particular girl who saw us, looked away, and then did a double take. Dorian was about to open his mouth, perhaps to weasel more words out of me, when the girl interrupted him.

“Oh, _heeey_ , Amy!” Mary-Jane, in all her red-headed glory, appeared at the table. There was a big, horrible grin on her face. “Who’s your friend?”

“Your name’s Amy?” Dorian asked when I didn’t respond right away, looking from her to me with eyebrows rising.

Damn it.

“He’s not my friend,” I muttered, glaring as Dorian stood up and introduced himself to Mary-Jane, hand shake and all. Neither of them seemed to have heard me.

“I’ll catch up with you guys in a second,” Mary-Jane waved to her compadres who had walked in with her. They must be from her other school, because none of them I recognized from Midtown. Did I mention she attended Midtown only for theatre program? Well, she did. And now I had to live with seeing her five days a week, for the next two years, after this. I was never going to live this down.

To me, Mary-Jane asked, “Sooo, how did you two meet?”

Wow, I could _hear_ those matchmaker gears turning in her head. Why wouldn’t she just leave me alone?

I said, “He spilled coffee on me. Five minutes ago.”

Dorian’s shoulders hunched up in embarrassment. He gave me another awkward smile; it must be a classic move of his. “It was an accident, I swear.”

I rolled my eyes and Mary-Jane looked between the two of us, contemplating something truly evil. Had she caught onto the fact that I really didn’t want to be here yet? Or maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she wanted to watch me suffer.

“You know, Amy and I are going to a party down on Bleakers Street,” Mary-Jane told Dorian, leaning against the table with one hand while placing the other on her cocked hip. Why couldn’t Dorian hit on _her_ instead? She was clearly the more attractive between the two of us, and was more adept at flirting. And was, you know, _interested_.

“We are?” I looked up at her, caught off guard.

“Yeah, remember what I told you the other day?” Mary-Jane nudged me on the shoulder. She winked at me, as if she were doing me a favor. “I think it’s going to be a lot of fun. You can come, too, Dorian.”

Dorian, being not completely braindead, understood that the glare I was throwing in MJ’s direction was not because I liked the idea. He frowned and said, “Uh, are you sure? I don't want to be a problem or anything...”

I shot Mary-Jane another look, mentally telling her to drop the subject and crush this party idea. But apparently I had yet to develop mind control powers, because MJ went ahead and chirped, “Of course not! The more the merrier! Just show up around eight on Bleakers, in front of the coffee shop, and we’ll meet you there. Here, I’ll give you my number...Amy?”

“What?” I snapped, perhaps meaner than absolutely necessary.

Mary-Jane motioned to Dorian, who gave me a little wave, with her hand and said, “Why don’t you give this nice young man your number?”

“Because I don’t have a cell phone,” I replied before standing up, throwing onto the table the napkins I had crushed into a tiny ball to prevent from doing the same to anyone’s face – and walked right out of the shop.

Behind me, I heard Mary-Jane say in a genuinely disappointed tone: “Sorry, she’s just having a hard time right now, don’t take it personally...”

Dorian said something as well but at that point the door had slammed shut behind me and I was already crossing the street.

As soon as I started to run, I knew they couldn't catch me.


	11. Quid Pro Quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extremely belated update. I had writer's block, then realized the only way to get what I want out of this story is to edit it a little bit. In case you just came to this chapter, I recommend re-reading the previous one, specifically the first few, which feature the most changes.
> 
> Anyways, the effort to go through all that left me a little tired, and I wasn't in the mood to write an action scene. Instead, be prepared for some good old-fashioned real-world pragmatism. At least, that's what I'm calling it, and I'll stick to it.
> 
> Next chapter, we'll be seeing our old green friend again :)
> 
> Please read and review!
> 
> ~~~~EDIT: 1/31/2015 - I heavily edited the ending of this chapter, giving it a darker edge and throwing in the little plot point I forgot to write in the first run-around.~~~~

**Chapter Eleven**

**Quid Pro Quo**

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight,” Peter said as he handed cash to the hotdog vendor. He turned to me with a quizzical look. “A robbery at a high security bank where seemingly nothing is stolen, yet a giant man with metal arms was spotted roaming the streets, fighting Falcon and causing major damage - over _nothing_?”

It was a little after noon, long enough for me to have almost forgotten my encounter with MJ and the Dorian guy. I still didn’t know how I was going to deal with that, although now it seemed I didn’t have much of a choice.

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” I hissed, glancing around. I couldn’t help it, I was paranoid. Like at any moment, Goliath would show up to kick my ass. I had to be careful. “It’s _something_ , I just don’t know what. Important enough not to tell the media, that’s for sure.”  
  
“Do you have it?” he asked, turning away from the vendor. I followed him, keeping up on my shorter legs. “The whatever-it-is?”

“No. A, erm, a contact of mine has it.”

“A contact.” Peter threw me a wry look, dodging a bike messenger that had zoomed up from behind. He shouldn’t have been able to move that fast, couldn’t have reacted in time. But it was just another sign that his Spidey Sense was very much a real thing. “Right. Sure. _You_ , the ever-charming Falcon, has managed to keep contacts. Man, _I_ don’t even have contacts! Unless you count Boris the hotdog vendor; he gives Spidey freebies every time he shows up. I kind of figured you’d avoid that kind of, erm, relationship.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but couldn’t help smiling a little. He kind of had a point. “It’s not for a lack of trying. He’s just...persistent.”

“You mean he likes you?” Peter sounded so nonchalant that I almost couldn’t believe it. Then I remembered that this guy was dating a cheerleader and another girl crushing on him (that is, Gwen). And maybe Mary-Jane, but that girl didn’t do commitments.

“I don’t really think ‘like’ is the word I’d use,” I muttered, perhaps more to myself than Peter. I stuffed my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, feeling a little disgruntled with the idea that Smoke’s intentions were less than pure. “He’s one of _those_ guys, you know? A total Casanova. He’s left me alone, though, after I almost killed him.”

Peter almost choked on his hotdog, then forced it down in a swallow that sounded rather painful. “Urgh...let’s avoid upping the charges to felonies, okay? Vigilantism and rampant property damage are bad enough as it is, I don’t want to feel like the police actually have a good reason to get us arrested or anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said wryly. Peter didn’t have to remind me. It was an unspoken rule of ours that killing people – even if they really, _really_ deserve it – was forbidden. Because, you know, we’re the good guys. We have morals.

And also because I wasn’t sure if I could live with myself after the fact. Taking someone’s life isn’t something that’s treatable; once they’re gone, they’re gone. No amount of community service or jail time would ever change the fact that the crime was done. Completely irreversible.

“Maybe you should get in contact with your contact,” Peter advised, just as a string of police cars suddenly appeared around the corner, chasing a rogue bank truck hijacked by thieves. He eyed the scene, started to edge towards an alleyway, “See if you can reason with him. I, uh, gotta go before they destroy Fifth Avenue.”

“I’ll try, see ya,” I sighed, now alone on the streets. A few seconds later Spider-Man swooped by, followed by pointing and cheers.

With nothing better to do, I decided I might as well get this Smoke-business over with.

 

* * *

 

 

Either Falcon was getting better at finding Smoke, or he was losing his touch.        

She confronted him in an attic of a brownstone, where apparently the thief was stealing the old, forgotten pieces of someone’s life that they stored away here. Falcon wasn’t sure if there was anything here of any real value, but then again, she wasn’t a thief.

Smoke didn’t get a chance to speak before she threw him into a wall. “What the hell did you steal?!”  
  
He slumped to the ground, coughing and spluttering in shock, having not enough time to phase through the attack. Rubbing the back of his head, Smoke grimaced and said, “First of all, _we_ stole it – you helped, remember? Don’t tell me you were surprised when you went to the police and they tried to arrest you.”

Falcon wanted to throttle him. “It’s not the police that are after me!”

Smoke blinked at her, realization making his eyes go wide. “Wait, you don’t mean...I-I thought you took care of that cyborg freak! I thought you had it handled.”

“Had it handled?” Falcon snapped, throwing up her arms in frustration. She stomped her foot for emphasis, and the floor shook in response. Dust fell from the ceiling as she said, “He almost killed me! I might have had a chance if _someone_ didn’t ditch me in the middle of a fight, but _nooo_ , I had to fight Goliath alone!”

“Goliath?” Smoke asked, confused. “You gave him a name?”

“No, that’s what he’s called, I saw it on his arm,” a hand went to her head and Falcon turned away. Blood pounded through her ears, making her head throb, and she was shaking all over. Every single movement had to be delicate, like if she put too much weight into the action, she might break something. Not herself, but the floor, the wall, the glass windows that vibrated in tune to her thoughts. Smoke, apparently recalling the last time she lost her cool, glanced around cautiously, going a shade transparent in case things started to explode.

But Falcon managed to push it down again. The vibrating windows quieted. She took a deep breath before saying, “So, tell me, what’s that orb-thing? Did you already sell it?”

“No, no,” Smoke shook his head, getting up and dusting himself off. Considering he had just been thrown into a wall, he looked pretty good. “My client decided not to show up at the last moment, so now I have a hunk of metal hanging around at my place and no idea how to sell it. I don’t know what it is, I just know they call it the Key.”

“The Key?” Falcon threw him a look. “A key to what?”

“Hey, I don’t ask the questions, dove,” Smoke just shrugged. While he was, in fact, a very good thief, his curiosity left something to be desired. Then again, maybe his employers didn’t appreciate him knowing too much. “I just get paid, all right? If you really want to know, I suggest speaking to the guy who wants to buy it.”

“You’re going to tell me his name?” Falcon took a step forward, eager. Too eager, perhaps. She saw a smirk grow on his face and tried to regain her dignity. “Oh, right, I forgot. You’re a professional.”

“Bingo,” Smoke winked at her in his ever-charming way and Falcon was glad she had the helmet on to hide her blush. A furious, red blush that went to her ears and made Falcon want to punch something. Specifically, his face. Stupid boys, stupid hormones. Why did all the cute ones have to work for the bad guys? “You know me too well, dove,”

Not that she was interested. Nope. No way. Falcon had priorities, and personal relationships weren’t one of them.

But she couldn’t help but feel a little bit embarrassed when she said, “Don’t call me that.”

Taking a second to recover, she went on to say, “Show me where the Key is.”

“What?” Smoke gave her a look that clearly said he thought she was crazy. She was, after all, asking to invade his privacy. “No. Not going to happen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I not clear?” Falcon tilted her head, voice innocently saccharine. Unfortunately, his privacy was not her priority at the moment. “Did I forget to mention the _giant homicidal cyborg_ that is still on the hunt for the Key who will no doubt find you and rip you to shreds? Or do I have to remind you, once again, that this is way more important than whatever payday you’re hoping to get?”  
  
There was an extended moment of silence when Smoke just glared at her, jaw set with gritted teeth. Then he huffed and muttered, “Fine. But –!” he held up a finger and pointed it at her, “This stays between us, got it? No blabbing to your web-slinging bestie.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Falcon replied in smooth tones. She had no intention whatsoever to tell Spider-Man that she had gotten herself caught up with the antics of a self-absorbed thief. “Just show me the Key.”

So they left the brownstone before the owners could find out what was making all that noise up there. Falcon followed the flickers of shadow and mist that signaled Smoke’s movement, as he teleported from one shadow to the next. A convenient skill, for a thief, helpful during the daytime, making him practically untraceable at night.

Falcon was almost jealous. Almost.

He led her to Brooklyn, to a studio apartment along the bay. The building seemed fairly new - perhaps it had been renovated recently, but must have been strapped for clients because, as far as Falcon could tell, not a lot of people lived there.

Then again, it was New York, and the city wasn’t known for its reasonable living costs.

“This is where you live?” Falcon asked as she ducked inside through a window. The place was sparsely decorated, only some furniture lying around, and in the dark, it seemed rather musty and old. “Kind of...quaint.”

“I’ve got a lot of different safe houses, dove,” Smoke replied, flicking the light switch and bathing the area in a nice, white glow. “This is just one I keep the best stuff in.”

Best stuff was right. Across every surface there seemed to be some priceless artifact resting there. Things from jewelry to ancient vases to intricately carved boxes (and was that a Fabergé egg?) littered throughout the apartment, leaving barely a single space uncovered. Even the walls were laden with various paintings and masks, probably from museums. Was that a Monet? Just how much money was here, in irreplaceable items of wealth?

“...Wow,” was all she could say. “I didn’t know you stole this much stuff.”

“Some of its stolen,” Smoke said, looking pretty smug. He seemed pleased to have managed to impress her. “Some of it I earned doing jobs. You’re welcome to take a look.”

Falcon cast a suspicious glance at him, but took up the offer anyways. How often was one allowed to get this close to a Ming vase, to _touch_ it? She couldn’t believe how easy it seemed, how impossible it was that she was standing in the same room as something as precious as these artifacts. They were worth more than all the money her mother ever earned, probably more than anything Falcon would make in her lifetime.

It was kind of depressing, actually.

Smoke was scrounging around, looking for the Key in the mess of his apartment. Apparently, organization was not a skill he exercised regularly. “What’s the matter?”

“Hm, what?” Falcon shook her head, not paying attention.

“You’re being really quiet,” Smoke paused, giving her a strange look. “You’re not going to break anything, are you?”

“What? No, why would I?” Falcon asked, and she couldn’t help to keep the resentment from creeping into her voice. “This stuff is worth millions. It’s priceless, really. One-of-a-kind works of art. More than I’ll ever get to see in my entire life. Why would I destroy that?”

“Uh, I dunno, never mind, then,” Smoke was wise in choosing not to give her a sarcastic reply. He went back to searching without another word. A few minutes later, she heard him call: “Ah, here it is!”

Smoke popped back up, black rock in hand. “See? Not a scratch, and that Goliath guy is nowhere to be see–”

_CRASH!_

The wall exploded with such force that it knocked both of them off their feet. Falcon had sensed the intrusion only a second before and had just taken a step back before the room seemed to shake around her.

She hit a table and fell, gold jewelry and trinkets falling on top of her. Falcon scrambled to get back up again, her ears ringing with sudden fear. The lights had cut out, leaving the entire room black as ink. What was that? What’s going on?

The smoke cleared. From the light in the hallway, Falcon could make out the silhouette of a gigantic man, arms shining with metallic light. Goliath.

Falcon expected him to have a weapon, but there was nothing in his arms; did Goliath just break down the wall with his own fists?

Somehow, that didn’t surprise her.

Before she could even react, the man charged, knocking down the nearest shelf and sending its contents flying. It was preamble to the rampage as Goliath uttered a strange, guttural roar, before charging into the room and bulldozing over everything that stood in his way.

Strangely, Goliath didn’t come at her. Falcon got up, virtually untouched, and watched in speechlessness as the cyborg ran around in seemingly aimless circles, smashing holes into the walls and no doubt giving the neighbors something to complain about. He even brushed right past her, inches away, and didn’t give her a second glance.

Which was rather odd, considering he had been trying to kill her a moment before.

Instead, Goliath seemed to be targeting Smoke; it didn’t mean much, since the thief just phased through whatever attack the cyborg threw at him. With each missed swing, Goliath seemed to be getting angrier and angrier, in turn breaking more things, to hurt Smoke in the only way he could.

But Falcon was fine with this change. In fact, she was rather amused as Smoke scrambled around, trying to save his treasure before Goliath could destroy it. The Key had gotten lost in the midst of the chaos; it appeared no one knew where it was. But she wasn’t stupid; it was obvious that was the reason Goliath was here; she understood now, even though she wasn’t entirely clear on how Goliath managed to track them down. The man didn’t seem to be the detective type.

“Falcon, what are you doing?” Smoke cried as the Terminator charged through him again and utterly obliterated an entire dinner table and everything on it. “Stop him!”

“Oh, I’m sorry?” Falcon looked up from examining her nails, standing in the middle of the carnage untouched and unconcerned. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve done my quota of service for the day. You’re on your own. _Ciao!_ ”

“What? No, stop!” Smoke appeared in front of her, grabbing her shoulders so she couldn’t turn and leave. “Fine! I’ll get rid of that stupid orb, just stop him from tearing this whole place down!”

“And will you take me to Bruce?” Falcon asked.

His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled a breath he didn’t want to make. Then Smoke groaned, hanging his head, and said, “ _Ugh,_ you drive a hard bargain, dove. Fine, I’ll take you to him, but _only_ if you stop that-that giant from breaking all my stuff!”

“Good,” Falcon pushed him off her, taking strides towards the behemoth running amok through the apartment. “Oi! Big guy, over here! This what you want?”

She held up the orb that had been burst free of its hiding place in a cabinet; something Goliath didn’t notice in his rampage. As soon as she spoke, the man came to an abrupt stop, turned, and stared at her through that skull-faced mask. Falcon smiled, raising the orb in the air, “You want it?”

Goliath stiffened, preparing to make a grab for it.

“Then come and get it!” she shouted, then jumped out the window and took flight.

Falcon didn’t know how long it would take for Goliath to catch up with her, but she certainly didn’t expect it to be in midair.

Somehow Goliath got the right amount of lift and velocity jumping after her. Falcon gasped when two metal hands wrapped around her ankles, yanking her down.

Her wings could not adjust for the weight. Falcon looked down, saw the fast approaching ground. No matter how much she kicked, she could not get rid of Goliath. “Dude, let go! You’re wrecking my flight pattern!”

She thrust her wings down, trying to slow their descent, but it did little good. Goliath, with all his hardware, had to weigh at least half a ton, if not more. Falcon’s wings could not support a full grown man, much less a girl and her giant-sized baggage.

_KR-AACK!_

They hit the ground with an asphalt-shattering explosion. Falcon’s back took the brunt of the fall – Goliath somehow landing on his feet – but she didn’t get the chance to recover before Goliath threw her into the closest brick wall.

The wall broke under impact. Falcon couldn’t remember much aside from pain and the smell of mortar dust in the air. Her head was spinning, ears ringing, radar completely askew.

She tried to get back up, her back aching – wings withdrawing instinctively, but her arms trembled, and she fell back on her elbows. Man, that was a hard fall.

Then Falcon looked up, saw the hole in the wall. She seemed to be in some backroom of a costume shop, with masks and props lying about. But all that hardly registered when a heavy footstep shook the ground and she saw Goliath’s looming form emerge from the dust, blocking the light from the street as he filled up the entire hole.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. It galvanized her and Falcon shot to her feet – there was no way she was going to let this giant beat her down, take the Orb, and run away with it.

Goliath took another step inside. His arm went to his back, pulling out what looked like a mini-gun. He never got the chance to shoot it, however, because a giant spider suddenly attacked him from the left.

Its felt-covered legs and synthetic body obstructed Goliath’s view as it wrapped around his head, distracting him long enough for Falcon to remove the gun from his grasp – which, too, was weakened in his attempt to remove the Halloween decor.

The gun went flying into the depths of the storeroom, to be found the next day by some very alarmed storekeepers. Meanwhile, Falcon was currently making her way out of the storeroom, to the selling floor and towards the front door. Alarms went off as she passed through invisible laser motion sensors. Knowing that the cops would be here soon, Falcon wanted to get this done as quickly as possible – hopefully, by the time those black-and-white cruisers showed up, Goliath would be primed for arrest.

But that would be unlikely. Just as Falcon rested her hand on the door handle, having already unlocked it with a waved of her hand, a plastic skull soared past her head and smashed into the glass in front of her.

Falcon ducked when a crystal ball followed – it would have taken her head off had she not sensed it a split second before. This time the glass shattered and Falcon threw herself out before the incoming coffin could take her out.

It careened out the doors, and she hit the ground and ducked her head as it sailed over, hitting a car on the other side of the street.

Now with two alarms filling the air, Falcon was starting to get annoyed. She was barely making any ground, and Goliath was causing way more collateral damage than she intended. This was not how it was supposed to go.

She got back up, only to be sprayed in water when the flying cashier register took out a nearby fire hydrant and let loose a gush of freezing water.

 _Mother of pearl, again?!_ Falcon was nearly knocked down again by the sudden drop in temperature. Why was it that every time she fought with this guy, she always ended up wet? He really needed better aim.

Almost too cold to move, Falcon ducked into a nearby alley while Goliath emerged from the store, scanning the area. The street was now soaked, perhaps to be turned to ice by morning. Bills and coins were scattered across the area, surrounding the busted machine, while the car was sporting a new hood ornament and complaining about it.

Falcon’s heart hammered in her chest as she watched the Goliath look around. She clutched the Orb to her chest, hoping there wasn’t some telepathic connection between the two, because that would be a problem she didn’t know how to fix.

...it was taking Goliath a lot longer than usual to reach her, and for a second Falcon couldn’t figure it out. She was too cold to move and was hoping her adrenalin might kick in and get over it, but that hadn’t happened. So she was stuck here, waiting and wondering what was preventing the cyborg from finding her in this very obvious hiding spot.

What had changed? Somehow Goliath had traced the Orb all the way to Smoke’s (one of many, apparently) hide out. And the last time they fought, even though Falcon hadn’t had the Orb with her at the time, Goliath _thought_ she had, and pursued her.

Until it had started to rain.

Falcon looked down at herself, the proverbial light bulb suddenly flicking on above her head. Of course! Whatever connection Goliath had with the Orb – whether it might be a sight or sound or radio wave she couldn’t perceive - was being interrupted by the presence of water.

Falcon smiled to herself. Now she had a plan.

Rolling her shoulders, she got some feeling back into her arms before unsheathing her wings again.

Goliath’s head snapped in the direction of the noise just as Falcon shot into the air. Keeping hold of the Orb was no problem – it was small enough she only needed one hand, and it didn’t alter the wind dynamics too much.

She took off, flying over the Meatpacking District and going straight for the Hudson River. Falcon wasn’t sure how much of Goliath was metal, but she was making a bet that his lungs weren’t, and that his heavy metal arms wouldn’t do him a lot of good when trying to swim.

Falcon thought she was making good headway. It took less than a minute to reach her destination, the river glittering icy cold below. The streets were unusually vacant, although the rise of police activity and various explosions may have had something to do with that.

A searing heat exploded in her shoulder. It was so powerful that Falcon suddenly couldn’t breathe and her vision went white with pain.

When she opened her eyes again, she was sprawled across the wooden boards of a loading dock. The sounds of waves filled her ears, and scant lighting revealed that the Key had fallen out of her hand, having rolled some meters away.

Falcon blinked, lifting her head and tried to get up, but as soon as she tried moving her right arm, another bought of agony ripped through her body and Falcon collapsed, gasping for breath and shaking so violently that she couldn’t see.

Taking in deep, heavy inhales, Falcon looked over her shoulder; saw an odd shape sticking out of her wings. A long strip of metal, sliding right through the feathers and fabric and into the skin underneath.

She almost couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. A _knife_ as long as her hand had embedded itself into her shoulder – _how_? Did Goliath _throw_ it? From three hundred feet away?

All things considering, he had probably been aiming for her spine, so it was good thing he missed.

Heavy footsteps shook the wooden dock, and Falcon looked up (hissing when her shoulder protested to the movement) as Goliath strolled in, almost like he was taking a leisurely walk as he bent down and picked up the fallen Key. Then he turned to Falcon, red eyes glowing in cruel light.

She closed her eyes before reaching over and yanking the blade out – Falcon had no choice. The knife prevented the wing from sheathing and completely immobilized her arm. With it out of the way, her wings could capsize and she could move freely across the ground.

Gripping the bloody knife – _her blood_ – in her fist, Falcon slowly got her feet. She felt lopsided, one arm rendered entirely useless and the other, her non-dominant hand on top of it all, wielding a weapon she didn’t know how to use.

Goliath stopped at the sight of the injured girl awkwardly holding up the same knife used to impale her. He tilted his head, as if somehow intrigued by the sight, a rare moment of seeming humanity that almost gave Falcon pause. But she refused to be deceived, and in her own desire to end the fight, blinded by anger and pain and exhaustion, she launched herself at the cyborg, knife leading the attack.

He knocked the weapon aside as casually as swatting a fly. Falcon only realized after the fact that her speed had been dramatically reduced thanks to the wound in her shoulder and she was so consumed by it that she couldn’t dodge the next blow.

It landed on her uninjured shoulder, knocking Falcon across the dock with such a resounding crash that she didn’t know if she could pick herself up again. The pain was so great she felt like she might be sick. Anything to get away from the anguish, if only she could think clearly, just get back up again...

Feeling claustrophobic within her own helmet, Falcon yanked it off, sucking in the cold, sharp air, relishing the sting in her lungs. Good god, that felt good.

Once more, Falcon stood, and faced the giant, wiping at her own mouth and blinking through the physical torment to narrow down on her enemy.

When she threw herself at him once more, this time she had a goal in mind. Weaving around the first strike he made, Falcon reached up for his mask.

Her fingers grazed against the edge, and she thought she could make it, but she overestimated how much strength her legs still had, and she watched, almost in slow motion, as her hand fell away, too far away.

Goliath saw the opportunity and took it. With Falcon looking in the wrong direction, he snatched her by the throat.

Falcon didn’t get a chance to cry out before Goliath’s cold fingers were squeezing her trachea. Her hands flew up, wrapping around his wrist and trying to pay his hand off.

But the metal was much stronger than she was, and Falcon was already at a disadvantage with her gimp arm. Moving it took all the strength she had and it barely had any effect on the cyborg’s arm. The pain alone drained her of the energy she needed to fight.

All of the air had been cut off from her lungs. Falcon chocked, her legs kicking uselessly in the air. A pressure built inside her head the longer she couldn’t breathe. It pounded in time to her heart beat, faster and faster as her system started to go into panic mode and ration what oxygen she had left to spare.

_Stop, it hurts, stop. Can’t breathe. Need to breathe. Stop, please stop, just stop._

But Goliath didn’t stop. Falcon could feel her struggles getting weaker by the second. It was getting difficult to see. There were pins and needles on her arms and legs. White and red spots flickered in front of her eyes, pressure pushing on her eyes. Feeling was starting to drain away from her arms. At least her shoulder didn’t hurt anymore...

_Let go. Let go of me. Let go let go let go._

LET GO OF ME.

And then her vision went red.

Glass breaking. Metal crunching, ripping apart. Wooden boards breaking, turning upward.

The hand disappeared and Falcon choked as the air returned to her lungs.

She dropped to her knees. Arms dropped limply to her side, hitting the dock with a soft slap. Sharp, cold wind buffeted Falcon from all sides, nearly knocking her over.

As though she had just been branded with a hot poker, the pain in her shoulder returned. Falcon seized, clutched her arm – shouldn’t the wound have started healing by now?

When she opened her eyes again, Falcon immediately forgot about her shoulder. How did _this_ happen?

It looked as though a hurricane had just passed through. The dock was ripped apart, pieces of wood scattered across the water. All the glass on the boats and nearby buildings had disintegrated. Streetlamps were knocked down, bent like straws, and what lights remained flickered uncertainly, as if expecting another storm to hit.

Falcon looked down. The only part untouched was the dock she rested on. In front of her was her helmet, a few feet away the Key.

The Key.

Falcon scrambled over to it, her limbs wobbling as she tried to support herself. Picking up the Key, she pushed herself to her feet. Turning to the river, Falcon took a deep breath, steeling herself before winding her arm back, and sending that Key into the middle of the Hudson, where it would never be found again.

Falcon couldn’t see that far into the darkness, but she knew she had hit her mark when she heard a distant splash as the Key hit water and was whisked away by the current.

Then her knees gave out.

And another set of arms caught her.

“Easy there, dove,” came an all-too-familiar voice. “That was a pretty wild move you just pulled back there. Are you okay?”

Falcon was surprised, but it was a momentary feeling. Of course Smoke would follow her. He’d want to know the outcome, perhaps retrieve the Key and sell it to his client. Well, it was too late for that. Breathing labored, she replied without looking up, “Kn-knife... to the shoulder. I... I’ll be fine. ”

“ _Knife_?” there was a rising tension and Falcon tried to stand back up again, but her legs were sluggish to respond. She felt something brush against her shoulder and Falcon flinched, feeling a new warm stickiness spreading across her back. She could sense Smoke recoiling, grabbing her arm to keep her from moving too much, perhaps to get a better look. “Holy hell, what happened to you?”

She grimaced, pulling her arm back stiffly. “It’s...just a flesh wound.”

“Doesn’t look like a flesh wound,” Smoke said, much to her annoyance. Couldn’t he just leave her be? She didn’t see it, but Smoke had removed his own shirt (deciding to keep his jacket on, a wise move considering the cold air) and balled it up. With a warning touch to her arm, Smoke pressed the cloth to her shoulder. When she let out a hiss a breath, he muttered, “Sorry.”

It took Falcon several seconds to recover. There were several long, shaky inhales before she could finally say, “It’ll heal.”

“Does it usually take this long?”

Falcon refused to look at him, but her voice betrayed her uncertainty. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Smoke sounded angry, far angrier than Falcon had ever heard him, but it was an accurate demonstration of his current emotional state. When she didn’t respond, Smoke grabbed her arm (the uninjured one) and shook gently, “Mia! Talk to me!”

“I...I don’t -” Falcon turned her head, startled by the touch. She looked at him over her shoulder – not angry, as might be warranted by the aggressive touch, but worried. Scared. Her ears hadn’t even registered the name he used. “I don’t _know_. I don’t go to hospitals when I’m hurt. I just hide and-and wait it out...”

“That works for you?” Smoke asked, disbelieving.

“Well, I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Smoke replied, scowling. Apparently sarcasm was not the appropriate answer. “This isn’t going to work. You’ll need stitches.”

“What?” Falcon yelped, jolting as though she never heard the word before. The very idea was preposterous;   she had no medical training, and going to the hospital was not an option. Too many questions, a compromising outfit; the police would most certainly get involved even if she didn’t look like a vigilante.

Smoke didn’t need to explain it to her, but he did anyways. “The cut is too deep. You’ll bleed out before you’ll heal.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.” Her tone did not allow for any argument.

But Smoke was full of surprises. A wry smile flicked across his lips. “Well, it’s a good thing I know someone who can help.”

“Someone?” Falcon swayed on her feet. The blood loss was starting to take its toll and she was finding it difficult to keep her head up. She didn’t even realize she was now leaning almost her entire weight into Smoke, who made no comment on the matter. “Someone who?”

“He’s a doctor. You can trust him.” Smoke replied, looking down at her, his smirk turning to one of concern. “Can you walk?”

“Uhh...” Falcon blinked and when she next opened her eyes again, she was being carried in Smoke’s arms, one supporting her back and the other cradling her knees. She looked around – they were already on the street – startled by the sudden change, and considered fighting out of his arms before slumping in defeat. There was no point, and like this she could not hurt herself further, as humiliating at it was. “Huh. I guess not.”

“It’s all right, dove,” Smoke chuckled, his shoulders shaking a little as she rested her head against him. “I don’t mind rescuing a damsel in distress.”

“You’re so lucky I’m dying right now,” Falcon muttered. “Or I’d kill you for that.”

“Let’s not get hasty.”

Falcon did her best to remain conscious, but it an Olympic-level effort and one that she knew she wasn’t going to win by a long shot. Still, she took in the destruction she wrought, wondering once more how it all passed by without her having any memory of it. It happened again, didn’t it? Falcon was in the right state of mind to really analyze things, but she was sure that she had once more lost control.

Well, it was a problem to be dealt with later. Right now, she had to focus on living long enough to see it.

Then Falcon spotted something out of the corner of her eye and she raised a hand, smacking Smoke’s chest and getting him to pause long enough for her to get a better look. “Wait, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” Smoke turned in the direction she was looking at, giving Falcon a better view.

Where the street ended and the river began was short wall of cement before a drop off to the water beyond. But the wall had been shattered, and below them, on the rocky shore of the Hudson, laid the broken form of Goliath – arms gone, leaving only metal stumps that sparked and fizzled in the presence of water. His clothes were in tatters and there was a new series of scars on his face –

Not his face.

Someone else’s.

_No way. No way. I must be dreaming, it’s gotta be blood loss –_

But Falcon knew she wasn’t seeing things. Smoke said something else, but it went over her head, just jumbled words her ears didn’t understand. She was far too focused on the sight before her to comprehend anything else.

Because Goliath’s face wasn’t that of some random ugly mook who volunteered to be equipped with metal arms, heavy firearms, and a weird-ass job in a bank vault.

It was that of Franklin Koppel, the security guard who died several weeks ago. The one who’s grave she stood on and the family who cursed her name.

And he was still breathing.

Falcon’s heart skipped a beat. Then she fainted.


	12. Primum Non Nocere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I just wrote this all in one night. Well, I guess that's what I get for waiting so long to update.
> 
> For anyone just getting to this page, I HIGHLY urge you to reread the ending to the last chapter, otherwise this one is going to make absolutely no sense to you at all. Unless you just enjoy being a masochist and care absolutely nothing about plot or continuity.
> 
> This is also super long because I happen to really like writing in Bruce's POV and I did a little bit too much research on medical care for a fanfic. It's not completely accurate, so don't take notes or anything, but I wanted it to make sense since he's a doctor and would know what to do. And then chalked the other stuff I didn't know to account for to superpower stuff. Idk. It's late and I want to go to bed.
> 
> Anyways, read and review!

**Chapter Twelve**

**Primum** **N** **on** **N** **ocere**

* * *

 

 

_ZZZT!_

It was about 1:32 in the morning when his doorbell rang.

Bruce should have known better. His instincts were telling him to go back to sleep, to pretend no one was home. Maybe the ringer would move on, realize that this wasn’t the house that ordered the pizza.

There was a long pause while Bruce waited. He relaxed after about ten seconds of silence, allowing the lull of darkness to take him back to unconsciousness.

_ZZZT! ZZZT! ZZZT! ZZZT! ZZZT! ZZZT!_

He jolted, surprised, then groaned. Whoever this person was, they were persistent. And annoying. A deadly combination.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled, getting off the couch. “I’m coming.”

Bruce couldn’t get any sleep anyways. His bones creaked and cracked as he got to his feet, stretching his back that had seen better days. Bruce didn’t consider himself old - hardly considered himself capable of dying - but he knew eating too much junk food was going to make the Other Guy less muscle and more fat. And probably still pretty angry, too.

He shuffled to the door, managing to find his slippers in the dark. Well, at least there was _one_ good thing about getting exposed to dangerous amounts of gamma radiation: night sight. It didn’t necessarily help the fact that he still needed glasses, or the fact that the Other Guy was as short-tempered as ever...no, just night sight. And an inability to commit suicide.

Of course, Bruce reconsidered the option when he opened the door and saw Smoke on his stoop, a girl literally in his arms.

He only had to say four words. “I need your help.”

Bruce was a little busy focusing on the girl, who was unconscious and if he wasn’t mistaken – _bleeding_? The dim moonlight shone down on Smoke, and revealed that his left arm was almost entirely covered in blood.

Suddenly Bruce was on high alert. The sight alone had him stepping aside, allowing the boy to rush inside. Bruce slammed the door shut. It was harder than he meant to, but somehow the occasion warranted it. Already he could feel his heart beat starting to pick up.

Immediately, he took stock of the situation, trying to estimate how much longer the girl had left to live from the pallor of her skin. “How much blood did she lose?”

“I don’t know, man,” Smoke said, looking around the room for a place to put the girl. He was antsy, hardly able to stand still. “A lot? I wasn’t exactly going to measure it trying to get here. What do I do? Where do I put her?”

Bruce turned on the lights and moved swiftly into the living room. With one grand sweep of his arms, he cleared off the coffee table of all its magazines, books, and a few plates of Tupperware, knocking them all to the floor. While creating a mess seemed unhelpful, it was a problem Bruce could deal with later. “Set her here. Try to wake her up, I’m going to get my kit.”

As Smoke laid her down and tried to shake her awake, Bruce got up and headed for the kitchen. Movement felt good right now; anxiety was starting to build up, and he really needed to keep it together. A thousand questions were running through his head; who was this girl? How did Smoke know her? What happened? Why did he bring her here? Was a hospital not good enough? Why would Smoke risk causing more stress? He knew what would happen if Bruce got too worked up. The girl might not be the only one suffering from blood loss by the end of this.

Unfortunately, now was not the time to ask such questions. But Bruce was nothing if not a man of priorities and tact, and he filed away these thoughts for a later time when he returned with a box full of his old medical supplies. Before he opened it, though, he checked the girl’s pulse – weak, but considering the blood loss, not surprising.

He couldn’t remember the last time he used these. While Bruce had a medical degree, it had taken a backseat when he went into his study of Gamma radiation. Years of neglect might be a problem, something he didn’t even consider until now, yet when he pulled out the scalpel and felt its familiar sleek surface in his fingers, Bruce felt the old expertise slide back into place. Muscle memory had done him a service.

The girl was wearing a strange material he had never seen before, but it was as susceptible to the blade like anything else was. Thick and soft like a wet suit, the blade carved through the fabric across the girl’s back.

Her head was turned to the side, Smoke speaking close to her face, still attempting to wake her. “Mia? Mia! Can you hear me?” the boy – because in that moment, filled with fear and uncertainty and vulnerable to emotion, that’s what Smoke really was – looked towards Bruce, his face pinched with worry. “She’s not responding. Is that bad? How do I wake her up?”

He was talking so fast that Bruce almost didn’t understand him. But he refused to be overwhelmed like Smoke was, and said in a carefully measured voice. “I’m going to say she’s lost about a couple pints of blood. Unconsciousness it not unusual. It’s going to take a stronger stimulus to bring her out of it.”

Smoke inhaled through his nose, nodding at the information. “So she’s going to be all right?”

“I didn’t say that.” Bruce knew better than to get the boy’s hopes up. He still had no idea what had happened here, information he desperately needed if he was to ameliorate the situation. “Do you know her blood type?”

“Uh, no,”

Bruce sighed, getting on his knees to pull at the fabric and remove the cut away pieces. They were heavy with the blood it absorbed. As soon as he touched it, his fingers were coated, and he had to wipe them on his shirt so he could hold onto the scalpel without his grip slipping.

Trying not to think about how he just ruined his favorite shirt with grotesque bloody hand prints, Bruce, brought the scalpel down on the girl’s skin.

Smoke jumped, alarmed. “Whoa, what are you doing –”

The girl jolted when the blade pierced her skin. It was only a tiny poke, barely a spot of blood (not that you could tell in the midst of the carnage...). Her whole body shuddered as she sucked in air and started to shift, only for Bruce to place a hand on her uninjured shoulder. He checked her pulse again – it was a little stronger now, but that wasn’t saying much. “Easy there. It’s best not to move.”

It was hard to say if the girl heard or even understood him in her current state. She tried to turn her head to see what was going on, but unable to she tried to get up, moving her arms. Only one of them didn’t work, and attempting to work her right arm caused her to seize up and gasped for breath. Bruce could actually see the ripped muscle beneath her skin stretch and shudder from the effort. “Smoke, you need to keep her from moving, or she’ll only make it worse.”

The boy acted immediately, moving so he was within the girl’s line of sight. Although her face was turned away from Bruce, he could see from the angle the wild look in her eyes, the shock she was going through. “Mia? Mia, look at me, it’s going to be okay. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

The girl managed a weak nod before slumping back down on the table, allowing Bruce to continue his work. Bruce saw this as a perfect opportunity to gather more information. “Do you know what happened?”

He intended for the girl to answer, but it was Smoke who explained: “I don’t know, there was a knife and she pulled it out.”

Bruce shook his head, almost disbelieving. “Wait, and you _let_ her? You realize that just makes the bleeding worse, right? She should’ve kept the knife in.”

“I wasn’t there!” Smoke protested, holding up his hands in defense. “And even I was, she wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Okay, fine,” Bruce had to restrain the urge to roll his eyes. God, give him strength. This was the last thing he expected to be dealing with in the early hours of the morning. Instead of trying to dissect this odd relationship between the girl and boy, Bruce asked her, “What is your blood type?”

She didn’t seem to hear him and Smoke had to repeat the question to her face for the girl to respond. Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and failing. “O neg...”

That was all he needed to know. When Smoke looked up to Bruce for further instruction, the man said, “There are blood packs in the kitchen freezer. I need you to get one labeled ‘O-negative’.”

“Who keep blood packs in their freezer?” Smoke stared at him. “...You’re not joking, are you?”

“You brought her here for a reason, didn’t you?” Bruce shot back. This was no time for dawdling – as much as he would love to press pause so everything could be set straight and he could assure Smoke that, for a man like him in a situation like the one he was in, having your own personal blood bank wasn’t all that unusual – but reality didn’t allow for such luxuries, so he added it to the already-long list of things he needed to do after saving this girl’s life. “Hurry up. You’re going to help me give her a transfusion.”

“Oh, great, I _love_ needles,” he heard Smoke mutter to himself as the boy got up and went into the kitchen. While he waited, Bruce put on a pair of latex gloves; a coffee table was hardly sterile and he was sure there was more dust particles than oxygen in his house, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. At the very least he could try to keep contact areas as clean as possible.

Smoke returned a few seconds later, carrying the plastic bag gingerly between his hands, looking as if he were holding a live bomb. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Nothing, yet,” Bruce was already peering into the wound, pushing his glasses up his face so he could get a clear image. The wound was clean – it matched the story of the weapon being a knife, one edge smooth, the other serrated. That would make fixing things a little more difficult, but nothing Bruce couldn’t handle.

What made him worry was the deepness of the injury – whoever had used the weapon had packed some muscle behind the blow – they had sliced clean through the scapula and through the ribcage on the other side. It was hard to tell through the mess of muscle, blood and bone that for some reason didn’t stop moving. “You need to keep her still.”

“I _am_ , she’s not moving!”

Bruce blinked, backed up a bit to confirm Smoke’s statement; the girl was indeed entirely still, aside from the shallow breathing and head twitching. Well if she wasn’t moving, then what...?

Frowning, he squinted and peered closer at the wound. What Bruce saw had him made him freeze to the spot.

“The bone,” he finally managed to saw, after blinking a couple more times and rubbing his eyes. “It’s- it’s _healing_.”

“Uh, yeah,” Smoke said, not sounding as surprised as Bruce expected him to be. The man threw him a look, and the boy failed to look innocent. “What? I never said she was normal.”

“Well, then,” Bruce clenched his fists, a muscle in jaw tensing. Smoke’s attitude was not helping the rising tension. Each second that passed the girl lost more blood, came a little closer to death. “How _abnormal_ is she?”

“Enough,” the boy replied, and Bruce didn’t deny the look he saw in Smoke’s eyes, the guarded look that spoke of more secrets he was hiding. Well, the kid’s a thief, what did he expect? “Usually she doesn’t need medical care, or so she says. But I’m pretty sure it’s never been this bad before. I don’t know why her body isn’t just...taking care of it?”

“The shock combined with the blood loss,” it was an educated guess, but still a guess. Even with his various and wide-ranging knowledge, Bruce had little idea how her biology worked, how different it was to a regular human’s (or his own), and took solace in the fact that this little tidbit might buy them a little bit more time. “Her body requires calories to heal, but the severity of the injury is probably hindering the process. Instead of helping her, it’s slowing everything down. Diet and exercise are also factors, but I can’t say to what measure.”

“But you’ll still be able to help her, right?”

“She has a better chance,” Bruce once more refused to give the boy a straight answer. A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ were absolutes and Bruce knew better than to deal with them. “But that’s not going to happen if we don’t act now. I also need to get the wound cleaned – get me paper towels, clothes, anything, and bottles of water – they’re in the fridge. Then we’re going to disinfect it with this,” Bruce pulled out a bottle of iodine. “I’ll have to stitch the muscles _and_ the skin back together, so this is going to be a fun ride.”

“You need to work on your humor.”

“Just go!”

With a pair of tweezers, Bruce carefully started plucking whatever foreign particles he could see from the wound. The girl twitched whenever the cold metal came into contact with her skin, but didn’t say anything. He could tell she was shifting in and out of consciousness – moments of fear and panic interspersed with a coma-like sleep.

When Smoke had brought back the rest of the materials, they got to work. With little care for the table beneath, he poured water over the wound, using the towels to help clean away the blood and grime that had gathered. Some of it had dried and become tacky, getting a little difficult to remove, but soon enough the area was clean and Bruce could finally have an accurate gauge of the wound. Almost three inches in length, who knows how deep, the skin pulled back and revealed the muscle and bone every time the girl breathed, her ribcage expanding and revealing itself in intervals. It didn’t appear infected, but Bruce wouldn’t know for sure until later.

“Now comes the hard part,” Bruce said, mostly to himself, but also as a warning to Smoke. Not knowing how strong the girl was, with her _abnormality_ , he had Smoke hold down the girl while he opened the bottle of iodine and, using a cloth, applied it to her wound.

The effect was instantaneous – the girl nearly launched off the table, and nearly punched Smoke in the face for his efforts to keep her from falling off. One hand wrestling with her arm, the other keeping her from lifting her head too high, the boy tried to keep the girl’s attention by talking to her, but it was only partially successful – when the man tried to use the iodine again, she flinched away again. She didn’t flail around as much, but she did manage to kick Bruce in the leg. His pulse practically skyrocketed and Bruce nearly dropped the bottle of iodine in alarm.

He had to pause, take a little breather. The Other Guy did not take kindly to being physically assaulted, even if it was only an accident. Bruce had to remind Him that the girl was of no threat, and a little bruise was worth it if her life was saved in the end. That would not happen if the Other Guy decided to take control.

The green rage momentarily abated, Bruce returned to his work.

“Are...are you okay?” Smoke asked as the tense moment passed. He eyed Bruce warily, as if wondering if _now_ was a good time to duck for cover. “I mean, you’re not gonna...you know... _change_ , are you?”

“No, I’m fine,” it _was_ the truth, although to be honest Bruce wasn’t sure how long it would stay that way. That was the first time in months he came even _close_ to transforming. The very idea terrified him and he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. From the edge of his vision, his skin always seemed to be turning a green tinge, yet when he checked for sure, Bruce would only see his own, normal tone. Being constantly on edge like this was a fact of life he had hoped to leave behind, but now had returned to become a new reality for him. Great. Just great.

Smoke didn’t look entirely convinced. Bruce didn’t blame him. For all their sakes, the kid needed to stay vigilant. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” this time he couldn’t help but grit his teeth. The questioning was not _relaxing_ , that’s for sure.

Smoke still seemed doubtful. “Look, I’m sorry for bringing her here, if I’d known what would happen, I would’ve never –”

“It’s _fine_ , Smoke,” Bruce had to look him in the eye to get the thief to believe him. “The Other Guy doesn’t invalidate my Ph.D. I’ve done plenty of surgeries before – this is hardly the worst I’ve experienced. Besides, I would’ve said yes anyways. I took the oath.”

While not a practicing doctor anymore, Bruce still took the Hippocratic as seriously as his professional counterparts. This wasn’t a matter of convenience or temperament; he felt honor bound to make sure this girl didn’t die, to help someone who couldn’t seek the aid from a hospital, to attract the unwanted attention of scientists who would only want to treat her as another test subject, like they tried with him.

It was not a fate Bruce would wish on anyone – not even the Other Guy. In fact, it was the Other Guy he had to thank for getting out of that kind of existence. If there was one thing the two of them could agree on, freedom was much more desirable than being trapped in lab, covering in wires and needles and treated as less-than-human.

Besides, helping her, Bruce felt like he was somehow making up for all the damage he’s done in his life. Not _all_ of it, that’s for sure, but just a tiny bit. If he could help someone, anyone, then that was good enough for him. At least he knew he wasn’t a complete monster.

The bone, thankfully, had properly set itself during the healing process, so Bruce didn’t have to worry about splints or braces or any of that nonsense. Still, the mending wasn’t complete and he knew that, with enough force, the girl could break the bone again, and possibly make it worse than before. She would be in a sling for a while after this, enhanced healing or not.

Of his many tools and supplies, one of the things Bruce _didn’t_ have was an anesthesia. Aside from easing pain, it also relaxed muscles, which would be really useful at this moment, but because Bruce never actually needed it himself, it had never occurred to him to stock up on it until now.

Not that he planned on making events like this a regular thing. No way. Too much distraction. Too much stress. This was a one-time thing. But it was certainly a thought to consider.

Bruce was afraid that Smoke would start making sarcastic remarks, perhaps to alleviate the situation or his own nervousness, but thankfully the boy remained silent and allowed Bruce to concentrate on his work. This was a boon, because the girl proved to be particularly troublesome when the stitching started. First the muscle, which he had difficulty lining up in order to put back together. Bunched up and stretching, the girl was clearly capable of superhuman feats, because she kept tearing through the threads every time he loops them through the tissue.

He didn’t have stronger thread, so the only option he had was to double, triple, and quadruple the loops so the muscle couldn’t break through.

It was through this experience that Bruce noted another problem that was preventing the girl from healing successfully on her own. Because of her muscular strength and torque, the actual muscles themselves did not remain in contact with each other long enough to start healing – and when they did, the muscle would _rip itself apart_ through the sheer act of stretching, destroying itself in its own act of repair.

It was a trying exercise to get everything to work. Bruce had to admit, while muscle stretching was often a problem during the healing process, _this_ kind of circumstance was quite a new experience. That alone was frustrating, but the girl’s constant struggles, while not necessarily very strong, were obstructive and nearly led to several mistakes. Bruce was skilled enough to avoid them.

“Wow, and I thought _Gray’s Anatomy_ was hard to watch,” Smoke said when Bruce finally managed to finish with the muscle. The blood vessels were small enough to heal on their own, which was a relief, because Bruce did not have the tools to properly deal with all those broken arteries and veins.

Bruce allowed himself a short chuckle. “I hope you’re not considering going into the medical field. The book has considerably less sex than TV will have you think.”

“Duly noted.”

The girl was exhausted by the time Bruce finally started pulling her skin together. With occasional washes to clear away whatever blood had accumulated, he finally started to feel himself relax a little. From what he could tell, the girl was going to be fine. It wasn’t over yet, though – once he was done, the transfusion had to start immediately. The surgery alone had spent much of her blood, which was partially the reason why the girl had gotten less responsive. Bruce tried not to let that distract him, but he couldn’t deny that he was bothered by it.

As he was pulling the needle through her skin, Bruce told Smoke, “I need you to get the blood pressure monitor from the bag. Once I’m done, we’re going to sit her up and test her blood pressure before starting. We’re going to have to keep a record of her vital signs, and keep an eye on her reaction to the blood transfusion.”

Thankfully, the rest of the stitches (thirty-two in total) went along swimmingly. He tried his best to keep the work neat so it wouldn’t scar so badly, but to be honest he was more concerned with just making sure everything stayed together. Scars were going to be inevitable. He wasn’t even sure how well she was going to be able to use her arm after this.

No longer reacting to physical stimuli, the girl was entirely dead weight as the two of them lifted her up. It was easier just to bring her to the couch, and Bruce grabbed a pen and a book from the floor and, writing on blank pages in the front of the novel, he started jotting down her vitals. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about warping her respiration rate – the girl was unconscious and therefore not aware of his counting her breaths to his watch, so there was no concern about her trying to control her own breathing. At the same time, Smoke took her temperature with the thermometer, getting an 87 degree Fahrenheit – low, but again, not shocking considering the blood loss. Then came the blood pressure, which, to his credit, Smoke managed to figure out without too much instruction.

After one final check of her pulse – even lower than before – they set about the actual transfusion.

Not trusting anyone but himself to insert the needle, Bruce had to remove the girl’s gloves (which were unusually heavy), and used the scalpel once more to cut through her sleeve to gain access to her arm. He had noted earlier that the girl’s suit, seemingly hand-crafted, had a zipper, but it was too cumbersome to remove the girl’s clothes the manual way. This was both easier and faster, and right now the integrity of her suit, no matter how well-made or expensive to craft, was none of his concern.

The girl gave a slight flinch when the needle entered her vein, but otherwise she did not move. Her eyes were half-lidded, and with her face turned towards Bruce, he had the distinct feeling that she was watching him – but her eyes were a dull gray, unfocused and unmoving, and far too much like death than Bruce were comfortable to admit.

Hanging the blood pack from a shelf above the couch (Bruce would engineer a proper stand later, if needed), he first tested a small amount of the O-negative blood in the girl’s system. He had Smoke stay with the girl for the next fifteen minutes, checking for any warning signs of her immune system rejecting the aid, while Bruce himself started clean-up.

It was then he checked the time. Oh, sure, Bruce had been using his watch fairly regularly during the impromptu surgery, but it wasn’t until up to this point did he actually _look_ at what the time was.

Jiminy Cricket, he’s been at this for almost _two hours_!

...Well, it wasn’t like he was going to get that sleep anyways.

He kept the bag at hand just in case he needed anything else, but the books and magazines he put away. At least they could walk around with hazard again, and his living room looked relatively _sane_ again, and not the worst operating room ever conceived.

Bruce thought about it for a second, then decided, _no_ , it wasn’t the worst place he ever performed surgery before. The incident with the lumberjack in the Yukon Territory during January had been _far_ more dangerous and much less cozy than what he had right now. At least he didn’t have to worry about the scent of blood attracting every big hungry bear in a twenty mile radius.

“Anything yet?” he eventually asked, Smoke, who was keeping a watchful eye of the girl on the other end of the couch.

The boy shook his head. “I’m not seeing anything, no rashes or stuff like that. Is that good?”

“Good enough,” the process of blood transfusion was much more complicated and detail-oriented than this barbaric mess, but Bruce neither had the resources or the time to really care. “Increase the rate. I’m estimating she’s lost about three pints, so she’ll need at least the same number of transfusions until she’s fully recovered.”

He had no access to this girl’s medical background, or any national or state or local database, no way to verify everything he needed to know about the donors of his various blood packs (although everything had cleared when he first checked after, erm, _acquiring_ them). All he knew was that none of bags were contaminated, and as long as the girl wasn’t confused when she told them her blood type and she didn’t have any mysterious disease of her own (jury was still out on that one), then everything _should_ be fine.

But was anything ever that easy?

The table was a mess and Bruce only made a half-hearted attempt to clean it. He was mildly confused by the amount of blood on the table, considering that most of it during the surgery had been absorbed by either her clothes or paper towels. Where had _this_ come from?

He continued to clean, occasionally glancing at the two teens currently residing in his home. Smoke seemed to know this girl on a personal level, yet Bruce had no idea how either of them would get involved in a situation that involved knives and near-death experiences.

Oh, Bruce was very aware of Smoke’s occupation, what the kid did for a living. While he didn’t necessarily approve of it, Bruce knew that if it weren’t for Smoke, he wouldn’t be here right now, in this nice little house, living a peaceful existence right under General Ross’ nose. Who would think that the genius-physicist-turned-Gamma-radiated-beast was living in one of the most densely-populated cities in the world?

General Ross was probably still scoping out Canada, in its entire vast wilderness, or going back to Brazil to see if he had left behind any traces. Ross would find none, Bruce had made sure of that – but every day he lived in fear that it would not be the general who’d find him, but the Other Guy who would ruin everything, as he had each and every time before.

Just in case that happened (because he was only fooling himself if he thought the Other Guy could be silenced or destroyed), Bruce decided to keep contact with the outside world limited. The less people he knew, the fewer he would hurt should he change in their presence, because the Other Guy had a tendency to come out when the people Bruce cared about were nearby. After what happened with Betty, Bruce had promised himself never to let anything like that happen again. So far, it was working.

Smoke was one of the few exceptions to the rule (him and the mailman, who didn’t even know his real name), and not entirely by Bruce’s choice. Smoke had approached _him_ first, and really, Bruce was pretty sure the entire thing only happened because Smoke couldn’t buy his own alcohol. Although how a kid can afford to buy off a whole house for some random stranger, and yet not manage to have his own fake ID...

Well, Smoke wasn’t known for his common sense or rationality.

Either way, the kid hooked him up with a hideout that Bruce had managed to remain anonymous in for that past half year or so. That was in far greater value than a couple beers – although Bruce was pretty sure they were even now.

He wasn’t sure about becoming the kid’s go-to doctor for medical emergencies, or psychological ones (like for that Falcon girl – Bruce was in no way a psychologist, and to be honest he wasn’t entirely sure if any of his words actually helped). If anyone started to notice strange people on his doorstep, the odd hours he kept, any odd activity, the gig would be up as simple as that. And Bruce couldn’t risk exposure to any more people than he already had.

“Uh,” Smoke’s tone had the man turning his head, frowning as the boy peered at the girl, apparently alerted to something.

“What is it?” Bruce feared that the girl was showing a bad reaction to the transfusion – maybe she wasn’t O-negative after all and her body was rejecting the blood. He didn’t want to play Hot Potato with blood types until they found the right one, so he was glad to learn that it wasn’t the transfusion that was the problem.

Of course, the _real_ issue was much worse.

“She’s still bleeding.” The boy’s finger was at her collar, and Bruce saw what he was talking about instantly – her right shoulder was still bleeding, but instead of the back, it was now coming from the _front._ The anxiety in Smoke’s voice was the all the confirmation he needed. “The knife must’ve gone all the way through!”

Bruce cursed underneath his breath, reaching for his bag again. Well, guess he needed it again after all. Retrieving the scalpel, thread, and needle, he quickly came over, kneeling on the ground as he attended to the unconscious girl. It took only a few quick slices to get through the suit, now thoroughly ruined, to reach the other wound beneath.

Smoke seemed to be concerned for her decency, but they soon discovered that the girl wore a tank top beneath the strange suit she wore. It wasn’t in the way, so Bruce felt no need for further tampering. He had a clear enough view of the wound now, which had unclotted thanks to the removal of the suit that had provided meager blockage.

Well, that explained the extra blood on the table. Bruce only wished he noticed it sooner.

Indeed, there was a puncture where the end of the blade had pierced through the girl’s shoulder. Had this been a full grown man, this probably wouldn’t have happened – but because of the girl’s slight physique, the knife (which must have been at least six inches long, if not more) cut right through her. The wound was just under her collarbone, not even an inch wide. Although bleeding profusely, no thanks to her upright position, the injury was relatively minor all things considered.

Smoke didn’t even need an order before he was already rinsing the wound. Well, at least he was a quick-learner. Bruce was already stitching the wound closed within five minutes of being alerted to the problem. He didn’t worry about the bone beneath, and his knowledge of human anatomy gave him the skill to analyze and understand that her lung hadn’t been punctured – if it had, the symptoms would have been made apparent a long time ago, even without knowing the blade had gone so far through.

“Shouldn’t we be worried about internal bleeding?” Smoke asked. It was a valid question, but he didn’t have to worry.

“Well, if you’re right and she has an accelerated healing system, then I imagine that sliced veins are one of the easiest things her body can mend,” Bruce himself had seen no signs of internal bleeding, and the girl seemed to be taking to the transfusion well enough. It was still too early to say for sure, but further monitoring would provide the answers he needed to give a correct diagnosis. “Her system just needed a little outside assistance. We’ll wait and see, but as of right now, she should make it.”

The boy heaved a sigh he had probably been holding in the entire time. Those were the words he had been waiting the hear this entire time, and Bruce couldn’t help but smile a little at the kid’s reaction. “Dude, you’re a life saver.”

“I’m aware of that,” Bruce said, if only to keep the kid’s ego in check. He didn’t feel that the statement was true, but for now it would have to do. He cast a side glance at the boy, remarking, “So, is she your girlfriend?”

Smoke did a double take, not expecting the question. The rising flush in his cheeks seemed to answer the question even if his words did told a different story. “What? No, she doesn’t even like me. But she saved my life and I thought I might as well repay the favor, you know?”

“Well, isn’t that kind of you?”

Smoke scowled at him, not liking the tone of Bruce’s voice. “Do you really think I’m that heartless?”

“No,” Bruce said lightly, peering at the girl’s shoulder as he made the final knot to the thirty-seventh and _last_ stitch of the night. “I just find it odd that you seemed so concerned with her. I remember you telling me that you’re a no-commitment kind of guy. And you haven’t been seeing any other girls lately, have you?”

The girl stirred on the couch, her eyes flicking about in a restless sleep. Smoke edged away from her, perhaps leery that she might’ve heard what Bruce had said. He retorted, “Like I ever talk to you about that stuff. You don’t know _anything_ about me, okay?”

“Sounds like denial to me.”

“We are so not talking about this right now.”

Bruce just laughed to himself. He had no real concern for Smoke’s love life, he just enjoyed having something to tease him with. The little joys in life.

Standing up, the man put his tools away for the last time and went into the kitchen to wash his hands. And the rest of him, really. Looking down at himself, Bruce was startled to discover how much of himself had gotten dirty. Most of it was the girl’s blood.

Her _abnormal_ blood...

Bruce paused, letting that thought ferment in his head. When was the last time he ever dealt with such a subject? Surely not before his days in the Gamma ray lab. After that, he had been on the rub, living from one spot to the next. Sure, he had his own little lab here in the house, but it was child’s play compared to what was available in a government-sponsored science facility.

Still. He had the right tools necessary for the job. Sure, it could take some time, but he _could_ test her blood, reveal its components, discover what made her so different from everyone else...

What would he learn? What if General Ross found out? Dangerous or not, the girl would surely be of interest to the man who was so determined in exterminating every existence of inhuman activity on the planet. It could put her –and everyone she knew – in danger.

Hell, Bruce had considered trying something similar with Smoke when he learned of the thief’s own unique abilities. But the boy’s own vigilance would have prevented such a thing from happening, had Bruce ever been overcome with the scientific urge to dissect all he could from the living organism.

Sometimes it was hard to stop thinking like a scientist. Bruce had to remind himself that these kids were still human, or at least maintained a humanity, that deserved to be protected. He had seen where scientific rationality taken to its fullest extent could lead, and he was determined not to be like that.

If anything, the Other Guy was the antithesis to all that was impassive and logical in the scientific world. It was just a little thing that Bruce could take solace in.

A few minutes later, Smoke walked in. It took Bruce a second glance to realize that he, too, was covered up to his arms in the girl’s blood. There was a haunted look in Smoke’s eye, as if he was just realizing it as well, and was unable to compute the sheer horror of it all. Bruce left the kid alone to his thoughts and cleaning, while he found a clean shirt to wear.

Coming back downstairs, Bruce checked the girl’s vitals once more. It hadn’t been a whole hour yet since the transfusion, but he wanted to be careful.

Already he was noting a rise in her vitals, a sure sign of recovery, and that of her supernatural healing factor. Bruce knew, without even thinking too hard about it, that with further documentation he would be able to determine at exactly what rate her body healed in comparison to the average human.

 _No_. Stop that. Think human. Human. She is human.

Smoke appeared at the doorway, donning a clean shirt that Bruce had no idea where he had gotten from. “How long is it going to take until she gets better?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Bruce didn’t like it, but he was compelled to tell the truth, and stick to his duty as a medical doctor – only one of many occupations he laid claim to, but the most humane one. “A few days, at least. She’ll have to stay here. Moving her anywhere is too risky, and at this point a hospital is redundant and dangerous. Does she have any family or friends that need to be contacted? A cover story may be needed, since she obviously doesn’t know me, and I doubt she talks about you in her everyday life.”

“No,” was all Smoke said.

“No, what?”

“No, she doesn’t have any family.”

Bruce gave the boy a curious look. That was such a strange thing to hear. He glanced at the girl again, wondering if it was really true, or perhaps Smoke was mistaken. He _must_ be. “Are...are you sure?”

“Yeah, man, I’ve been to her place,” Smoke said, crossing his arms and looking a little displeased at Bruce’s disbelief. “She’s the only one who lives there. She doesn’t have any family, and she doesn’t bring friends over, if she has them. She lives a pretty private life. Kind of like you, actually.”

Bruce did not appreciate the comparison, accurate as it was. Oh, sure, it was fine for him, because he was an _adult_ , he was independent and could take care of himself (aftereffects of Gamma radiation notwithstanding), and had no family to worry over. But a girl – who looked even younger than Smoke – had no business living on her own, in a city like this, with the unique biology that she had.

Where were her _parents_? Aunts? Uncles? Hell, even grandparents or foster families were better than nothing. Who was responsible for her life, her well-being? Did anyone know about this? How does a kid just become _forgotten_? Did she just fall through the cracks of society?

Bruce should have known there was something suspicious when Smoke brought her here instead of letting her actual guardians handle the problem. “Well, double-check, just to be sure. There has to be _someone_ out there who can keep an eye on her.”

“But you’ll take care of her, right?” Smoke asked, approaching with an earnest look on his face. The boy knew Bruce’s principles – he was probably afraid that the man would be too strict on himself.

“For the time being,” Bruce said with a slow nod, but shot a warning look at the younger male. “But it’s a _temporary_ solution, you understand? She can’t stay here. The less she knows about me, the better.”

“Right, right. I’ll go take care of the family thing while you, um, sort all this out.” Smoke nodded, surprisingly quick to be accommodating, and before Bruce could ask what that was about, the thief was already grabbing his jacket and heading out the door. Or rather, _through_ it. “See you later, doc!”

He gave the man-turned-monster one last salute and grin before disappearing.


	13. Prima Facie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I'm trying to think of what I want the relationship between Bruce and Amy to be. It's occurred to me that perhaps she'd be too prideful and/or afraid to receive any sort of help, so she might not accept him as a mentor. And Bruce wouldn't think he could provide much anyways, since this is before he can control shifting to the Other Guy and thinks he's a danger to everyone he gets even remotely close to. He only puts up with Smoke because the guy can render himself intangible and can't get hurt even if the Other Guy tried.
> 
> Anyways, that's just me musing. Right now, they've barely even met, and don't want anything to do with each other. I'll just move on from there. Tell me what you think :D

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Prima Facie**

* * *

 

 

The Giants were beating the Patriots.

I knew this, thanks to the voices filling the space I was in. Was I at a football game? I had never been to one before – I thought it’d be louder.

Opening my eyes proved to be one of the hardest things I had ever done. Drowsiness pulled on my mind, weighed down my body, made me feel like I was breathing through a straw. Images flashed in my mind, too quick for me to catch them, and I was left wondering what happened.

I tried to focus on my surroundings, what my other senses could tell me. My radar was taking longer than usual to boot up, despite the fact I had been awake – half-awake, sort of sleeping – for about ten minutes now? Maybe twenty. I didn’t know. My internal clock was completely out of whack.

There was a blanket over me. Wool, if the itchiness was anything to go by, but very warm. I was lying on something soft. A bed? It felt too wonky – so not _my_ bed, then. Where was I? In my apartment?

I could smell food. Food being cooked. Chicken noodle soup.

Suddenly, everything just fell to the side. I couldn’t remember the last time I had chicken noodle soup – when I was sick? When was the last time I got sick? Whenever I was sick, I got to stay home, in bed, and Mom made me her special recipe and even though I felt like crap, the soup made me feel amazing...

I heard footsteps, echoing off the walls of the room, the squeaky sound as a chair cushion was sat on. I turned my head in that direction, the person ( _Mom? Mom, is that you? Why aren’t you at work?_ ), in the room with me. My neck protested against the movement, but I had to know I had to _see_ –

The light burned my eyes. I winced, shied away from it, but the light didn’t fade. Eventually, my sight adjusted and I could open my eyes a smidge without experiencing pain.

I was so ready to see Mom there, in our cramped little living room, watching the game as I rested nearby.

Because of that, I was completely unprepared for the sight of the unfamiliar room before me, with its green-painted walls and dark wood furniture, the strange couch I was on, and the man watching me from across the room.

I jumped, startled by his presence. My instincts kicked in and I tried to get up, to get away – but as soon as I tried to move, my right shoulder exploded in pain.

I gasped, fell back and looked down, saw my arm in a sling – when did _that_ happen?

Confusion mounting, I started to hyperventilate, looking around in all directions, trying to find an exit, a way out; maybe this was a dream, a nightmare, what the hell was going on? Who was he? Where was I? What is this place? How did I get here? How did I get hurt? Where’s Mom –  
  
I didn’t realize I was saying any of this out loud until the man got up, hands raised, saying, “Whoa there, slow down! Breathe, kiddo. Just take deep breaths.”

I listened to him because I didn’t really have a choice. But when he drew closer, I sunk deeper into the couch, wanting to leave but having nowhere to go. Seeing my fear, the man came to a stop by the coffee table, raising his palms as a sign of goodwill. It took me a second to find my voice again, “W...who are you?”

“I’m a doctor,” the man replied, an answer that was both correct and completely useless. I could’ve figured that out on my own. “You’ve suffered from severe blood loss. Confusion, muscle weakness, and nausea are typical responses during recovery. Do you remember what happened?”  
  
I shook my head, not even pausing to scan my most recent memories to know they weren’t there.

“All right, that’s fine,” the man sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat down on the corner of the table. Now closer to eye level, his face was easier to see, and I had to admit I was rather underwhelmed by his appearance.

Although not quite middle-aged, the man had a tired, slightly scruffy appearance that added a whole decade to what had been a handsome face. It seemed as though he was under a lot of stress, but maybe that just came with the territory; Doctors didn’t have it easy. With messy hair, a wrinkled shirt, and bags under his bespectacled eyes, the man seemed almost out of place in this nice house of his. He was also vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I last saw him if my life depended on it.

“Do you remember your name? Who you are?”

 _That_ I did know, but there was no way I was going to tell him. “Yeah. Where am I? Did you –” I raised my left hand, the uninjured one, only to discover that it was attached to something. A bandage covered the inside of my arm, a small red tube emerging and carrying up over my head. I followed it until I saw the blood bag handing from a coat rack behind the couch. “You’re giving a blood transfusion?”

“Didn’t you hear me say about the blood loss?” there was a wry tone in the doctor’s voice, earning an irritated look from me. But what was scary was that he was right – I was having a hard time keeping track of this active conversation. “You lost almost a liter and a half of blood. Do you know how many liters a human body only has?”

“Five,” I replied, not appreciating his patronizing attitude. “I lost blood, not my brain, thanks.”

“Well, then,” the man almost smirked, looking mildly impressed. “And how much blood loss needs to happen before it becomes fatal?”

“Forty percent,” I said , then took a second to calculate the unasked question. I didn’t like him asking me questions like a teacher – like, what, was there going to be a quiz later? “Which is two pints, so I lost about a third...? Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” the man repeated the word, pleased to see that I finally understood the gravity of the situation. “You wanna tell me how you ended up with a knife in your back?”

“I already told you, I don’t remember,” I snapped back, but the memories were starting to trickle in now. I remembered fighting Goliath, pulling the blade out of my shoulder – why the hell did I even do that? That just made everything worse. How could I have been so stupid? “How did I get here? Who are you?”  
            “Your friend brought you here,” the man replied, getting up with a small grunt. He kept talking as he walked out of the room, presumably into the kitchen. “Apparently you’re not allowed to go to hospitals, although he failed to explain why. I was hoping you might fill me in, considering I turned my house into an operating room just for you.”

I rolled my eyes, getting a little annoyed with this interrogation that I couldn’t escape. “Does it matter? I got into a fight and it went about as well as you think it would. That’s it.”

“And why were you fighting?” he asked, as if that somehow effected the quality of my injury.

“Because I’m a stupid teenager, and like all teenagers, I think I’m invincible,” I snapped back, now thinking of ways of how to get out of here as quickly as possible. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re not going anywhere so long as you’ve got a six inch hole in you,” the man replied in an even tone, unperturbed by my attitude. He raised his eyebrows, saying, “So I hope you haven’t got any important plans, because you’re going to have to cancel.”

“No, I don’t,” I replied, unable to think of a good excuse. I guess that was one drawback to being an asocial freak – no club meetings to attend, no games to play, no competitions to be in. “But I can’t stay here. I just – I can’t, okay? Bad things might happen.”

Of course the guy completely misunderstood me, and said with a smirk, “I don’t think your social life will be ruined by a brief hiatus. I’m sure you’ll be able to salvage it by the end of all this.”

I just snorted. “There’s nothing left to salvage, Doc. Besides, that’s not what I’m worried about.”

He didn’t ask me what that was. I didn’t think I’d have to explain myself, anyways. We both knew what I did – I was still wearing what was left of my suit. Anyone living in New York would know who I was, with or without the helmet. This guy, at least, seemed to have the decency not to make a big deal about it.

My back felt lumpy, and not just from the ice packs I was lying on. Whatever surgery had taken place, my body reacted accordingly, and the place of trauma had swelled at least three times its size, from the feel of it. The cold numbed it out, but every once and a while I could feel jolts of pain, phantoms of what I had been through.

Even though my torso felt so stiff I could barely move, I still tried getting back up. I couldn’t stay here. Who knows what could happen while I’m down for the count. I couldn’t even remember what happened last night – memories I desperately needed to recover.

Then it hit me. “I have a date!”

Sharp laughter burst out, startling me and making the Doc jump in surprise. Then Smoke materialized from the shadows by the staircase, a look of absolute glee on his face.

“You,” he said, pointing at me. “Have a date?”

“Yeah,” I replied, defiant. Never before would I have been so glad to have met Dorian, just to have this as an excuse. “I do. And because of you guys, I’m going to miss it.”

“Oh, come on!” Smoke threw his arms out, disbelieving. Not that I blamed him, but he could’ve been less of an asshole about it. “I saved your life! But you’ll never admit that, will you? This is just another lame excu –”

“Smoke,” Doc interrupted, casting the thief a disapproving look. He seemed peeved to have this unwelcome guest show up in his home. That’d make two of us. “That’s enough.”

“What? Don’t tell me you _believe_ her,” Smoke complained, looking at him while waving his hands over at me. The Doc kept a neutral expression, saying he wasn’t necessarily biased against me, so Smoke said, “Trust me, I’ve known her way longer. She’s about as friendly as a cactus. She hates talking to other people, how could she have managed to get any decent guy to like her is _beyond_ me.”

“It’s easier,” I muttered, but speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “When the guy isn’t _you_.”

His words hurt, even though it shouldn’t have bothered me. Still, I had to hide it somehow. He called me a cactus – and as it turned out, being prickly was what I was best at.

My retort had the desired effect. Smoke looked offended, angry, and was about to fire back his own response, but it was the Doc who said, “I don’t believe her, Smoke, because it doesn’t matter. She’s in no state to be moving – it’s going to take at least a week or more until her shoulder is fully healed. So, you’re grounded,” he said to me. “Unless you prefer legitimate hospital care. They may be able to speed up the process.”

“Great idea,” I said, not pleased with the option at all. I wasn’t an idiot – I knew the Doc didn’t want me here and was probably trying to get me anywhere else safe to recover. To be honest, I wasn’t ecstatic by the situation either, if my scramble for excuses was anything to go by. I would _love_ to be anywhere else right now. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. “But I don’t have healthcare insurance.”

Smoke uttered a snort, but did a double take when he saw the serious look on my face. “Wait, you’re not joking?”

“If I went to the hospital for every time I got hurt, I’d be in debt for the rest of my life.” I said, satisfied to finally get one up on him. Then I said to the Doc, “I don’t want to stay either, but you’re the expert here, so I guess I don’t really have a choice.”

The man heaved a sigh and nodded his head. It was pretty clear none of us were happy with this situation but I had no idea why the Doc was helping me if he didn’t want me here. It wasn’t like I was forcing him or anything – I definitely couldn’t hurt him and I didn’t see anyone holding a gun to his head. Was there something else here going on that I didn’t know about?

Before I could ask, the Doc walked out of the room, Smoke following him. A few seconds later I could hear a hushed conversation taking place, but as with everything else, my hearing had been greatly nerfed. Still, I tried to eavesdrop, but the effort was tiring and I could feel myself starting to drift.    

I fought against it, but only half-heartedly. Sleep was so much preferable to pain.

 

* * *

 

 

“As entertaining as your arguments are,” Bruce told Smoke, who looked unhappy he didn’t get a chance to have the last word with the girl. “I’d appreciate it if you would _not_ antagonize the patient.”

“Tell _her_ that,” Smoke replied, jerking an arm towards the other room, but his indignance faltered at the stern look on Bruce’s face. “I just want some respect, man. At least a thank you.”

“And you sought to achieve that by _laughing_ at her?”

The boy huffed and crossed his arms, but turned away so he wouldn’t look Bruce in the eye. “You don’t get it by asking –”

“Did you try?” Bruce said, knowing Smoke hadn’t. “You know, I thought you two had a closer relationship than...that.”

Smoke threw him a strange look, confirming the theory that he had no idea how his behavior was coming off as. “Uh, ha-ha, no. What gave you that idea?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Bruce decided not to dig any deeper. If the kid couldn’t figure it out on his own, then Bruce shouldn’t be the one to tell him. “I guess I just assumed.”

“Yeah, well,” the boy sniffed, chin raised in an air of superiority. “She’s cute and all, but the way she acts won’t get her anywhere.”

“Right,” Bruce decided not to remark on how Smoke’s own behavior got him into trouble plenty of times in the past. “Well, at least I won’t have to worry about her getting too attached to anything, then.”

“She won’t come back if she can help it, I can promise you that.”

Unfortunately, Bruce should not have taken his word for it. By the time he realized his mistake, it would be far too late.

Smoke disappeared shortly after their conversation and Bruce went back to check on the girl – she had fallen back to sleep and he considered it a good investment in getting the analgesics...although, he had to admit, seeing the girl so lucid, even if only for a few minutes, was rather surprising. He hoped her body wouldn’t adapt too quickly to the drug, or accidentally get her addicted to it.

He could only solve so many problems.

With little else to do but wait for the broth to cook, the man sat down in his armchair and watched the game playing on the TV. It was a convenient way to keep an eye on the girl’s condition but not get too bored with the stretches of inactivity. Normally, Bruce would spend time volunteering at the local health clinic; it passed the time, and apparently he couldn’t live anywhere without unnecessarily placing himself in dangerous social situations.

But the man couldn’t help himself. He felt useless if he wasn’t helping people when he had the opportunity. Once a doctor, always a doctor.

With the girl in her condition, he couldn’t leave her alone for long stretches of time, as working at a clinic would require. As he watched the Patriots wrestle the pigskin over the scrimmage line, it occurred to Bruce that he didn’t know the girl’s name (aside from Smoke’s long, and sometimes unflattering, list of nicknames). It didn’t bother him too much, not knowing this seemingly trivial piece of information. The less Bruce knew about the girl, the better – the same could be said vice versa. She knew as much as she needed to at the moment.

Bruce hoped he could hide the address of his house, the neighborhood they were in, from her in case she got any funny ideas. But he couldn’t put any faith in the thought. If the girl was a native New Yorker, she could probably pinpoint her location with a glance out the window.

He was also concerned by how lucid she seemed upon waking. It took a bit, but clearly the girl had a hold of her mental faculties, as well as intelligence – a minor surprise, especially considering she was a mere teen, subject to the government’s less-than-stellar education system. Did she even go to school? That might be a problem, especially if she had a good attendance.

But Bruce would wait until she brought it up first before he considered making it a problem.

The girl didn’t stir again until around seven at night; by then, the game had been replaced with a line of sitcoms. The tinny laughter was starting to grate on Bruce’s nerves and he was almost glad to have something else to think about.

The girl first mumbled something in her sleep, before a sharp bang from the show brought her back with a small jolt. “Gh!...what? Where am I?”

Her breathing was fast for a few moments, and Bruce leaned forward in his seat, making to get up and perhaps replay their last conversation, but the girl looked around and heaved a sigh. “Oh, I’m still here. God dammit.”

Bruce had to suppress a smirk, falling back in his seat. “Had a nice nap?”

The girl’s eyes flicked to him, hard gray and impenetrable. Bruce didn’t know a lot of teenagers. He could count the number on one hand, and Smoke was the only one he knew well enough to call an acquaintance, maybe even a friend. He had little understanding of the teenage psyche, but he imagined that kind of unfriendly poker-face took a certain level of experience that, if considered, would be alarming to any sensible parent. She said, “And you’re still here. Afraid I might go into cardiac arrest while I’m asleep?”

He didn’t want to think about what she had been through to get that look. He tried to mimic the same level of disinterest she had, but in his position of reluctant caretaker, it didn’t really work. “I’m watching for any bad reactions to the infusion or medication. You said you were O-negative, right?”

“Yeah, I...” the girl frowned. “Wait, when did I say that?”

“When I was operating on you. You out of it for the most part, which is pretty lucky. I wouldn’t want to remember being awake while someone’s digging around under your skin.”

“Ugh,” the girl closed her eyes, her head falling back on the pillow. “Thanks, man, I really needed that image in my head.”

“Sorry,” he winced inwardly. Bruce regretted using too-specific descriptions on a patient who could only imagine it too well with the help of hallucinogenic sedatives. “I hope it didn’t ruin your appetite. You’re going to have to eat something soon, if you feel up to it.”

“Mm,” the girl mumbled, settling back into the couch. She looked ready to fall back asleep. Still, she said, “Chicken soup sounds good.”

He didn’t find it surprising she already knew what it was. The smell was obvious enough, and she still seemed capable to make sense of her surroundings. Getting up, Bruce returned to the kitchen, where the broth was still steaming. It was kept warm by the stove beneath turning on and off at regular intervals.

Opening a cabinet, Bruce started reaching for a bowl, before reconsidering and going for a mug instead. The girl had no strength to hold a bowl and use a spoon at the same time, and Bruce was of the mindset that spoon feeding her would be unpleasant for the both of them. He also doubted that the girl would be able to even eat a whole bowl of soup without throwing up; he’d better start small, see how she handled it first.

He ladled the soup into the mug, filling it mostly with broth. Going back to the living room, Bruce thought the girl might’ve fallen asleep again, but she shifted at the sound of his approach. She opened one eye, glanced up at him, focusing on the mug in his hands. Then, with stiff slowness, she withdrew her uninjured arm from beneath the blanket, holding her hand open to receive the beverage.

Setting it gently in her hand, Bruce sat on the coffee table, watching her as she tested the soup against her lips. The girl seemed to be making a point of ignoring his presence. So he said, “Do you go to school?”

The girl closed her eyes, tipping the bottom of the cup upwards as she continued to drink the broth. Bruce wondered if he should repeat himself or just give up, when she pulled back the mug and spoke in a soft voice, “Yes.”

“So you understand you won’t be there for most of the week, right?”

“Yes.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” he asked, finding her behavior dubious. Surely this was just an act. There had to be more to this than she was letting on. “Isn’t your family going to be worried when you go missing for a whole week?”  
  
"Not really,” she replied.

Bruce expected her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, he had to ask, “So you’re telling me that when I wake up tomorrow, there’s not going to be a special on the morning news of a little blonde girl gone missing? There won’t be interviews of your parents asking for their daughter to be returned, safe and sound, and there won’t be policemen, knocking on every door in this city, looking for you?”

The girl blinked again, and for a second, Bruce thought he saw something flicker across her face, but he couldn’t identify it fast enough.

“No.”

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh at the girl’s bravado. Who was she kidding? The media loved focusing on the disappearance of missing kids; it made for great ratings, and the fact that she was young, Caucasian, and female on top of it all – she could be the next Elizabeth Smart, or Madeleine McCann. And being an alleged kidnapper was not something Bruce wanted to add to the list of convictions the government wanted him for. “Somehow I have trouble believing that.”

“Believe what you want, it’s not going to happen,” was her curt reply.

“So no one’s going to worry about you? No one important?”

The girl paused, the cup hovering a few centimeters from her lips. Then she rest the mug on her stomach and, still without looking at him, said, “Okay, maybe there’s one guy.”

“Who?”

The girl frowned a little. Bruce doubted she was going to give him any names, so wasn’t surprised when she didn’t. “My cousin.”

“You think he’ll go to the news stations?” Why was her _cousin_ the first person she thought of? Why not her mother? Her father?

“No. I think he might do something stupid,” she replied, sounding more annoyed than concerned about what her cousin might possibly do. Bruce also wondered what could be more stupid than putting out nationwide search for a girl who wasn’t even kidnapped. “Do you have a phone?”

“Why?” Bruce asked, drawing back a little. The request immediately had him suspicious. Least to say, he didn’t trust the girl, and couldn’t count on what she might do next.

The girl finally looked at him, rolling her eyes and making a face. “I’m not going to rat you out, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just going to tell my cousin not to do anything stupid, that I’m fine, okay? And to tell everyone that I just have the flu or something and so my best friend doesn’t tell her dad about me.”

“What would her dad do?”

“Well, a lot, considering he’s Chief of Police,”

Bruce stared at her, surprised. “You know Captain Stacy?”

“Didn’t you just hear me? I go to the same school as his daughter. I’ve known them for years. And you better believe they’d go all out if either one of them had the tiniest inkling I was in trouble. So can I have a phone, please?”

Well, that didn’t give him much of a choice now. Grumbling under his breath, Bruce got up and looked for the nearest house phone. It wasn’t on its dock where it should be, so it took him about ten minutes before he could find it again (in his office, under the desk; he had no idea how it got there).

The girl had finished her broth by the time he came back, looking a little better. Her cheeks had turned a rosy pink, which was a good sign. She reached for the phone and Bruce reluctantly handed it over. Without a word she punched in a number and brought the phone to her ear, waiting as it rung.

And rung and rung. The girl huffed, muttering to herself, “Come on, idiot, pick up the phone. You better not have gone to the _Bugle_ already or I swear...”

Bruce sat in his chair, a distance away, yet he could still hear the sudden burst of noise as the other end finally picked up, and shouting came out from the other end. A boy’s voice, from the sound of it, but too garbled to make it out clearly.

“Dude, dude, calm down,” the girl said, her voice straining with the effort. Her hand went to her forehead as she closed her eyes. “I’m all right, I’m alive, okay? Please tell me you didn’t go the police all ready? Oh, good. Because I’m fine, really.”

There was a pause as the boy started asking a flurry of questions. The girl tried speaking several times, but kept getting caught off. Eventually, she snapped, “Peter! No, I’m not at the apartment, but I’m safe, let’s just leave it at that. No, I...I can’t tell you that. No, I can’t! Sorry, but it’s one of those situations, you know? I’m just trying to keep my identity intact.”

There was a silence. Then the boy said something, so quiet that Bruce almost didn’t hear it. The girl sighed, shifting in discomfort on the couch. “Um, just tell them I’m sick. Like, really sick. The flu...I don’t know what I’m going to do for a signed note, since Aunt May can’t sign it, she doesn’t know anything. I’ll, um, I’ll think of something. I’ve got like a week to do that. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, and, um,” the girl added after a moment of thought. “Can you ask my teachers for any homework? I can’t fall behind, and if they already think I’m sick beforehand, it won’t be hard to convince them later.”

There was a reply, then an exchange of goodbyes. The girl seemed hesitant, but eventually she pressed the end-call button, and her hand fell limp onto her stomach, still holding the phone. Her eyes shut, breathing labored. “You don’t think you could sign a doctor’s note for me, would you?”

“Sorry,” Bruce replied without a moment’s hesitation. “But you’re not the only one trying to protect their identity.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the girl didn’t sound so much angry as tired. Her breathing was starting to become labored with the effort of staying awake, so Bruce got up to retrieve the phone. When he picked up, the girl gave him a bleary look, her words starting to slur a little when she said, “Got anyone to worry about you, Doc?”

Bruce had been about to walk away when she asked that. He halted, frowning down at her. What in the world had brought this on? The girl’s eyes were glazed over; it seemed as though the drugs were heavily influencing her thoughts. Yes, that was it. She acting under their affects and had lost whatever veneer of teen coolness she had been going for. It was almost satisfying to think about.

Knowing she probably wouldn’t remember this later, Bruce gave her the truth.

“No.”


	14. Ex Animo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, this chapter had more Smoke and less Bruce than I originally intended. But whatever, this whole situation isn't done yet, so there's definitely more of this to come.
> 
> On a unrelated note, I'm considering adding Daredevil, or at least introducing him, sometime in this story. I've already cameoed Matt Murdock in an earlier chapter, and I've been planning on bringing about the Man Without Fear, but I wasn't quite sure how. But since I've watched the new Daredevil Netflix show, I have a better idea how I want the plot to go. If you have any thoughts on that, please let me know :)
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Ex Animo**

* * *

 

 

Christmas was right around the corner and I had no idea what I was going to do.

I wish I could just make myself heal faster, so I wouldn’t have to feel like trash for missing Christmas with Peter and Aunt May. I had until Friday, thank god, but the question wasn’t if I had enough time, but rather if I could actually get to Queens without collapsing. All Aunt May knew was that I had the flu, not suffering from massive blood loss and a spanking new pair of scars.

The Doc didn’t seem very concerned with the idea of Christmas or the holidays. There were no decorations in the house, or outside as far as I could see. That wasn’t really weird, I suppose; the Doc didn’t strike me as a particularly religious guy anyways. In fact, I got the feeling that he was dreading the idea of spending anymore amount of time with me. Aside from the regular check-up, he rarely spoke to me, and never initiated a conversation that didn’t directly tie into my recent injuries. My own attempts at conversation were met with rebuttals; he wouldn’t even bother to tell me if he liked football or not, even though that seemed to be on the TV all the time.

Maybe he was hoping I’d die of boredom. That’d take care of his problem, wouldn’t it?

There was something strange about this house, or at least the living room I had been sleeping in for the past few days. This mystery effect gnawed at me, and had me starting at the ceiling for hours trying to figure out what it was.

I mean, by all standards, this place was completely normal, if a little quiet. There were books on the shelves, a TV with cable, a healthy amount of furniture that appeared lived-in; the street outside, what I could see of it, seemed to be a part of a nice neighborhood. The houses had nice architecture, I could see fancy Christmas lights and wreaths and menorahs in the windows. The apartment across from us had three Christmas trees alone. I couldn’t believe they had big enough apartments for that.

Where were we? Tribeca? The Village? A pretty swanky place to live under the radar, that’s for sure. I wondered why this guy was afraid of telling me who he was.

I first thought maybe the Doc was one of those weird serial killers that lived in plain sight and was taking advantage of my, or rather Falcon’s, vulnerability, like Misery from that Stephen King movie. If he wanted to kill me, he had plenty of opportunities that went wasted, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe he wanted something; then why hadn’t he asked yet?  
  
But Smoke seemed to trust him. As much as I disliked the thief, Smoke was careful who he allied himself with. I wanted to trust his judgment.

The Doc was older than my mom, yet it seemed as though he lived alone. He received only a sparing number of phone calls. Did he work somewhere? Didn’t men his age have a family, or were starting one, by now?

And then it hit me, as I was staring at that wall. There were no pictures.

No frames on the walls, or the shelves, or anywhere. The living room was the prime space in a house to display memories, yet there were none here.

I didn’t realize I had said it out loud (ugh, drugs again) until I heard the Doc call from somewhere else in the house. “What was that?”

His head appeared in the doorway to my right. I blinked still trying to catch up with my own thoughts, when I spoke (this time) intentionally. “Uh, you don’t have any pictures. I just wondered why.”

“Oh, right,” He said, not sounding surprised. What, did he make a conscious effort to make sure I didn’t see any of his private life whatsoever?

I thought he might give me an explanation, a reasonable answer as to why there seemed to be nothing personal here, but when he didn’t I frowned. “Don’t you have family? Friends?”

The Doc looked away, at the bare walls and unadorned tables. “Just go back to sleep.”

He disappeared behind the threshold again. It was one thing to avoid conversation, but I felt this was important enough to breach that wall. Also, I was pissed he’d actually just ignore me altogether. Miffed, I propped myself up on my good elbow and shouted, “Hey, wait! Come back here!”

I heard a heavy sigh, then soft footsteps as the Doc walked back into the living room. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, still not looking at me. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Not really, I guess,” I said, frowning to myself. I don’t know why I was expecting a different answer, but almost anything would have been better than that. “I just thought you’d be doing something for the holidays.”

“I work at the clinic,” he replied, his voice entirely flat. It occurred to me then that the Doc’s voice sounded familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t place it. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe he just sounded a lot like someone on TV, I didn’t know. “There’re a lot of accidents around Christmas, and there’s usually a shortage of staff. I try to help when I can.”

“That’s...nice,” I said, wincing a little at my own lameness. Jeez, I couldn’t think of anything interesting. Then, because my curiosity couldn’t be sated, I asked, “Have we met before?”

 _Now_ the Doc looked at me. “No.”

Then he left.

 

* * *

 

 

If the girl knew he was lying, she didn’t let on.

Bruce couldn’t stand her questions. This was exactly what he didn’t want to happen. Already she knew too much, and he had been hoping she’d be too tired to remember him, but her memory was already working through the analgesics. Would she remember how she was stabbed? Would she remember _him_?

Even worse, he couldn’t distract himself with much else. The radio, the TV, the Internet was filled with that infernal Christmas cheer (and rampant commercialism) that just reminded Bruce that he was very much alone. No presents under the tree, no grand dinner, no family gatherings or shopping or celebrations; no traditions to follow, no enjoyment to be had.

The only bright side to this was that the girl had less school to miss than he first realized. Her school break started tomorrow, and by all accounts her teachers were less likely to believe she was sick, rather than just skipping to an early vacation.

But even that was not a relief. Bruce knew she had a cousin named Peter, who would no doubt want her home for the holidays. The girl shouldn’t be stuck here, much less at such an emotionally-charged season. Wasn’t she concerned with her extended family (because surely she had _that_ , at least)?

She had been right, in any case, about no one reporting her missing. Not even a bulletin on the local news. Bruce had come to the only possible conclusion; either her parents didn’t care, or weren’t in the picture at all. He didn’t know which one was worse. All he knew was that the girl was on her own, when she definitely shouldn’t be.

Maybe Bruce shouldn’t be one to pass judgment, but there was a difference to be a full-grown, independent adult on his own (and on the lam, but that’s another story), compared to a teenager with questionable life choices. What was she doing, going out and fighting crime on a daily basis? She shouldn’t be risking her life, she should be trying to get through school. No doubt her little ‘hobby’ of hers had a detrimental effect on her life.

Bruce fell into his desk chair, safely hidden within his office. He rubbed his hands over his face, mentally exhausted. Ugh, he was thinking too hard about this. Who cared what the girl did? This was her life, she was free to make her own choices. Her life didn’t affect him in any way (except when it did...) and he shouldn’t concern himself with things he couldn’t change.

Getting too emotionally involved would go against everything he was striving for right now. Seclusion. Anonymity. Independence. Freedom. A life less stressful, and thus no interference from the Other Guy.

Luckily, the big green fellow had nothing to input on what had happened in the last few days. Which was pretty good, in his own opinion. Sometimes the Other Guy got antsy around people he didn’t like – especially the aggressive kind. Apparently, the word ‘hypocrite’ had no meaning for the guy who spoke in the third person.

The man sighed to himself. This was going to be a long week.

 

* * *

 

           

“Are you all right in there?” Smoke said through the door.

“You asked me that five minutes ago,” I called back, getting irritated. “And nothing’s changed! I’m not going to drown.”

It was bad enough I couldn’t take a shower, but now that I was in the bathtub, I needed a babysitter to make sure I didn’t accidentally die. The Doc had assigned Smoke because he preferred not to get involved himself. I suppose it was for the best, but that didn’t mean I liked it any less. Smoke was still in a bad mood from the last time he showed up here.

“I know that,” Smoke replied from the hall. The door was cracked an inch or two open, and he had his back against the wall, crossed arms and looking away. “What I _meant_ to say is if you’re done yet.”

“Almost,” I said, bowing my head in the water to soak my hair. The bandages weren’t allowed to get wet, so I had to be careful washing my hair. “You know, it’s not like the Doc’s forcing you to do this. You can leave whenever you want.”

“I’m the one who brought a half-dead girl into his living room and got blood all over the place. I owe him,” he shot back. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

I bit my tongue, staring at the bubbly water before me. It’s been three days since I woke up here and it hadn’t occurred to me say thank you. But now I didn’t know how to say it with Smoke acting all indignant, without coming off as insincere or apologetic.

So I didn’t say anything at all, and let an awkward silence fall between us. The bathroom made echoy noises as the sound of water splashing reverberated off the tiles. The Doc seemed to be obsessively clean, and the bathroom was no different; white bathtub, clean windows, no grime on the faucets or drain. Compared to the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, this was practically a five-star hotel.

Through the layer of soap I could see my legs, covered in bruises. They should’ve healed by now; my skin looked like a child’s finger-painting, if that kid only chose to use the colors blue and purple. My arms were in a similar state, and I’m sure the skin on my shoulder would look a lot like that, too, if not worse. The cuts I had accumulated stung when touching the water, even more when I added soap, but eventually it started to fade. There was one across my hairline that was particularly annoying, especially when I kept touching it like this.

Rinsing the shampoo from my hair with a cup, I felt like a baby getting a bath in the sink. It was a trick my mom used to keep the soap out of my eyes when even the slightest amount of pain could send me into a crying tantrum, tear-less shampoo or not. At least I didn’t need anyone to do it for me, thanks to my one good arm. The other was propped out of the way; it ached to be held up at a ninety degree angle, the muscles in my shoulder protesting and no ice to numb it. My powers, and radar, were still out of commission.

It had been three days. _Three days._ I didn’t know what it was like to be blind, but this felt as though I had lost a critical sense. Most of the time I was too tired to care, but at times like these, when it could be useful, I really noticed.

The first day, obviously, was spent asleep. The second, the bandages were changed. I was through the blood transfusions in roughly the same amount of time. Neither wound was infected, although I still couldn’t feel my arm. Even my fingers felt stiff, like I had early-onset arthritis. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t hold anything with that hand. Everything seemed to be healing, but the nerve damage was unanticipated. I wasn’t sure if it was something I could overcome.

The Doc seemed less concerned about it than I was. He believed it to be from the drugs, which may be the case, and I didn’t really have much to argue against, except for the gut feeling I had that something wasn’t right. It would be awhile before I knew for sure.

Smoke dropped by again on the third day, bringing food and extra medical supplies. By that time I was able to stand up and move on my own, if stiffly and at the pace of a dying armadillo.  

“How about now?” he asked just as I was putting conditioner in my hair. Maybe it was a luxury, and I didn’t really need it – but oh my god, it felt like heaven.

“Ugh, no, stop asking that!” I snapped. “It takes more than ten minutes for a girl to get clean, you know. Especially when one arm doesn’t work!”

“Hey, you can always ask for help.” I could hear the cheeky smile on his face.

“I’d rather drown myself, thanks.”

“Well, then I’d have to pull you out and perform CPR.” Smoke added, compounding to my revulsion. Why did he always have a comeback for everything?

“Yeah, like you even know how,” what good would a thief have knowing CPR? I had no idea.

“I can show you, if you’d like.”

“On second thought, I think I’ll drown _you_ instead,” I muttered, earning a snicker from the other side of the door.

After rinsing out my hair for the second time, I pulled myself up out of the water. My legs appeared from beneath the waves of bubbles and my knees trembled under the new effort to stay standing. Using a toe, I pulled the plug and heard a giant sucking sound as the water started to pour down the drain.

“Finally!” I heard Smoke say outside. I rolled my eyes as I gripped the sides of the tub, managing to stay up right as I climbed out and reached for a towel.   

“Is it safe?” he asked, turning towards the door.

“Y-yeah,” I said, pulling the towel tight under my arms. I didn’t realize how freezing it was until I left the water. It was even worse when my feet touched the tile, feeling as cold as the weather outside. “Although I don’t k-know why you w-want to come in.”

Smoke poked his head through the door, fixing me with a smile. “Just making sure you’re not going to die on me, dove.”

“Oh, please,” I muttered, my hair falling in my face as I looked down and leaned against the sink. In all my life I never thought I’d find myself standing naked in a towel in front of Smoke, the one guy who I found both strikingly attractive and wildly infuriating. “No bathtub can kill me.”

“Except for the Chosen One,” Smoke said, pushing the door open as I straightened up, watching me with a wry grin. “The one bathtub prophesized to defeat the mighty and terrifying birdgirl and bring peace to the land.”

I started laughing, despite myself. Maybe because I thought Smoke was actually funny, but it was easier to chalk it up to drugs. Still, when I looked up, there was a gleam in his eyes that I had never seen before, the widening smile as he got a positive reaction from me. It was almost strange. “What? What is it?”

Smoke blinked, shook his head, saying, “Uh, nothing. I just...I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

I snorted. “You’ve heard me laugh.”

But he shook his head again. “Not like that.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because, well, no one’s ever said anything like that to me before. Still, I could feel myself starting to blush, and I looked at the floor, wondering what the hell had gotten over me. “Oh.”

Thankfully, I didn’t have to dwell on it for very long, because my body got to ruin the moment within the next few seconds. Laughing actually hurt my chest, made my stitches pull a little, so I was feeling out of breath and perhaps a little more light-headed than usual. I leaned further onto the counter, feeling the world starting to swim.

Apparently, this was noticeable. Smoke stepped inside, a hand reaching out towards me. “Hey, are you feeling all right?”

“I-I’m fine,” I said, even though my throat was starting to lock up. I put on a brave face and pushed off the counter. It was probably a good time to lie down again. “Just a little hungry...”

But my feet were still wet and it turned out my sense of balance also wasn’t that great, because my heel slipped on the smooth tile and my legs crumbled beneath me. My hand missed the counter in the attempt to regain balance. “Ah!”

“Hey, be careful!” Smoke jumped forward, catching me at the last moment before I could fall.

My breath lurched in my throat as my footing completely disappeared and I grabbed him for support. My good arm was occupied with keeping the towel on, so my right arm was the one I had to use, which went about as well as you think it would. A jolt of pain went down my back as I slung my elbow over his shoulder. It anchored me, but now I could barely breathe and for two seconds I blacked out.

My vision returned soon enough. I found myself still in the bathroom, the cold tile floor sending shivers up my legs, while I had my face buried in Smoke’s chest. I was acutely aware of his arms around me, the hand touching my bare shoulder. Breathing coming in shallow gasps, I would be feeling absolutely mortified right now if I wasn’t more worried about the stitches I might’ve pulled.

“Are you all right?” he asked and I had to close my eyes to keep the world from spinning around me.

“J-just set me down,” My voice was shaky and wheezing. As soon as I was put back on my feet, I wobbled. My right hand clenched, gripping at his collar to the best of my ability. My fingers had trouble moving, so I didn’t have the same dexterity as before.

Smoke tried to let me go so I could stand on my own, but I wasn’t ready for it and clung to him, feeling both pathetic and afraid. “N-no, no, don’t let go. I-I can’t – I can’t –”

“Remember what the doctor said about breathing?” Smoke said with a chuckle, as though I might actually be amused by this. He took a step back, then another, carefully pulling me with him until he could set me down on the toilet seat.

I slumped against the tank, feeling nauseous, although surprisingly not because I had been so close to Smoke (wearing only a towel, no less). Letting my head sink onto my arm, I kept my eyes closed as I caught my breath, still feeling the world rocking beneath me.

When I could finally open my eyes again, Smoke was still there, sitting on the bathroom floor opposite me, watching silently. His expression was unreadable, which seemed even more frustrating in my debilitated state. So I pretended that nothing I did could’ve warranted his behavior and raised my eyebrows. “What?”

Smoke, for his part, had the decency not to look directly at me, dressed as I was. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” I asked, picking my head up to frown at him. “I know that look on your face. What’re you thinking?”

Smoke paused. He met my gaze for a second, then back down again, as though embarrassed. “Why do you do that to yourself?”

“What do you mean?” I blinked, confused, before I finally followed his gaze and realized he wasn’t looking at the floor, but my leg. Specifically the line of bruises starting from my ankle, traveling up to my knee, and disappearing beneath the folds of the towel.

“Oh.” I said eventually.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Why do you care?” I retorted, wondering why Smoke sounded so reproachful. It wasn’t like we were friends or anything. “And besides, you already know why.”

“Remind me, then,”

I fixed Smoke with a curious look, but humored him anyways. “Because it’s what I do. To protect this city.”

“That’s not what I was asking,” Smoke said, voice flat, like he expected it.

I kind of knew that, but I was hoping he wouldn’t notice, or would get a clue and drop the matter. Since he was proving otherwise, I decided to be more direct. “Does it matter? It’s not like it affects you anyways.”

A look crossed Smoke’s face, but it was too fast for me to decipher. Then he got up with a huff, saying, “You’re right, why should it? Maybe I am just a stupid thief, like you said.”

“When did I say that?” I asked, because I honestly couldn’t remember. I mean, it wasn’t surprising – I _probably_ said it more than once, since it was the truth. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Relax, dove, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, walking out the door and returning a second later with a pile of white clothes in his hands. “Here, something to wear.”

“Did you steal these?”

“If I tell you the truth, are you still going to wear them?”

I deliberated on it for a second. As much as I disliked wearing pilfered clothes, it was definitely a better option than wearing my torn up suit, which was grimy and smelly and needed to be burned. So I just sucked it up and said, “Just hand them over before I change my mind.”

Smoke made a face and left so I could change. It was an easier ordeal than bathing, and not as much trouble so long as I remained sitting for the most part. The clothes were white, loose-fitting pajama things that belonged in a psych ward, but they were clean and soft and so much nicer to wear than the suit that sometimes cut off circulation.

He was still waiting for me when I finally opened the bathroom door, leaning heavily against the frame. “Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” he seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Like you think I’m weak.”

“I don’t think you’re weak.” Smoke replied, starting to frown. He offered a hand. I was probably going to need it to get down the stairs. “You’re the toughest person I know.”

“Now you’re just trying to flatter me,” I winced as I reached over with my right arm. It was too late to retract it when he took my wrist, gently, and helped me across the hall.

“It’s called a compliment,” he said, pulling my left arm so he could have a better hold of my back. Looking down the staircase, I felt a sensation of vertigo, and my breath came out in a huff as we took the first step down. “And it’s more than you deserve.”

“Right,” I grit my teeth as the little jerks down the steps sent spasms of pain into my sides and shoulder. I couldn’t think of anything snappy to say and just kept my mouth shut as Smoke helped me reach the landing.

It was like heaven, finally reaching that couch. My heart felt like it was going to pop out of my chest at any moment, my head feeling like it could fall right off my shoulders. I was partly in a daze as Smoke helped get the sling back on, and I finally didn’t have to feel the ache of holding up that heavy arm for so long.

He didn’t say a word to me, just concentrated on the straps and how it was supposed to go around. I watched his face as I combed my fingers through my hair, retying it in a ponytail. I wondered why he still wore a mask even inside this house, with people who technically knew him.

“I like my privacy,” he said, startling me. “Weird of you to ask.”

At first, in a crazy moment, I thought he could read my mind, before I realized I must’ve been thinking out loud again. “Oh. I think that’s the drugs talking.”

“Of course it is.”

I wasn’t sure I like the way he said that. Compelled to prove myself (because I can’t just humiliate myself once today, I had to go whole hog), I said, “I just wondered what you looked like beneath it. Because, you know, you already know what I look like.”

I already knew that was a mistake before I said it. Why would I want to express the idea that I wanted to see his face? His true identity? It was bad enough he knew mine. I didn’t want to make this relationship any more complicated or messy than it had to be. But of course my mouth got ahead of me.

Smoke just glanced at me and said, “You’re not the one who has to answer to the higher-ups. It’s different for me. But maybe someday.”

I didn’t know why that made me sad, but it did and it sucked. To divert attention from my own feelings, I said, “I thought you were a free agent, or so you said.”

“Part time.”

“Who are the guys you answer to?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Whose it gonna hurt?” I said, smirking, wondering how the Rose could harm a guy who could phase through solid matter.

  
Smoke uttered a low noise that sounded almost like a growl. It seemed like he didn’t know how to answer that question. “All the right people, dove. I can’t risk it. Not even for you.”

“Oh.” Well, I couldn’t really argue with that. Also, I was too tired to make a big fuss of it, even if I was feeling spiteful.

Still, there was a sincerity to all of this that left me feeling content, and I had no idea what it was. He had just finished with the sling and had gotten up when I found the right words to express it: “Thank you.”

Smoke looked down at me, surprised. “For what?”

I was still feeling light-headed and didn’t have the energy to be sarcastic. I could feel a stupid smile pulling on my face. “You know what.”

He just snorted, shook his head and waved a hand at me. “Oh, no, I expect nothing less than a thoughtful, hand-written and signed thank you card, along with a bouquet of apology flowers.”

“Buy your own flowers. I’m broke.”

“Does that mean I still get a card?”

“When I can write again,” I said, lifting my useless arm. Another problem I hadn’t considered: with my dominant arm in a sling, this was going to make basic things like writing a real problem. “I’ll make you one. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, drifting towards the door with a smile on his face. “Just because you’re on drugs doesn’t mean you can back out of this later.”

“Hey, I make a promise, I make a promise. I’ll get you that stupid card.”

“Can’t wait till then,” Smoke said, flashing one last brilliant smile before disappearing.

I stared at the spot he vanished from for the longest time. Maybe longer. I didn’t know, I think I was starting to space out. It took me forever to realize I was not alone in that room.

I looked around, saw the Doc standing awkwardly in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. There was a weird look on his face. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows at me, waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t mind me, I didn’t see anything,” before walking out of the room.

I squinted at him as he retreated, suspicious that he was hiding something, but unable to figure out what. Then I decided I was too tired for this, and fell asleep.


	15. Ex Silentio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just saw Avengers: Age of Ultron, and I loved it :) I'm no movie critic, and it takes a lot for me to hate a movie, but this one was pretty good. Not as good as the first, I think, but really close. It had a few drawbacks for me (the out-of-nowhere Bruce/Nat romance being one of them, I didn't like it when I first heard about it online and the movie failed to convince me of their relationship), but overall I'd definitely see it again. The twins definitely became my new favorite characters :D
> 
> Sorry about that little review, kind of got off on a tangent there. I didn't mean to take so long to update, but I just had such a hard time writing this chapter. I eventually decided in telling it in a series of vignettes, to both get the idea of time passing as well as a collection of character developments, without needing to tell every single little thing that happened.
> 
> Please read and review! Or maybe PM me about the movie, I love to talk!

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Ex Silentio**

* * *

 

 

The girl was healing at an exponential rate. The skin was already mending itself back together – he could only assume something similar was happening to the muscle underneath.

Considering the severity of the wound, a regular human would be stuck in recovery for twelve weeks, probably longer, and in the hospital for at least half that time.

Despite this, however, the girl wasn’t eating very much. Of course, Bruce couldn’t push her to eat more than she was comfortable with, but she was consuming _less_ than the average human intake – and considering her biology, that seemed wrong.

The girl was also putting too much physical stress on herself. Usually, a hospital could avoid this by keeping her heavily sedated; the analgesics were mildly successful on this front, but a part of him was worried that she might become accidentally addicted to it.

So when Smoke returned with more supplies, including sedatives, Bruce was grateful; and knew better than to ask where he got it from.

The girl remained on the IV for the time being. This way she still got the nutrients she needed without making her eat more than her stomach could handle. It also kept her from wandering the house and stumbling across anything she shouldn’t.

As of yet, Bruce had no solution to stop her curiosity. It was unavoidable, because he was on constant monitor duty, and it seemed as though the girl was trying to stay awake just to spite him. More often than not she initiated conversation, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore it.

For instance, this one example occurred on the evening of the third day, long after Smoke had left. Bruce was reviewing paperwork in his chair as usual, with the TV on in the background, when her voice interrupted his thoughts.

“What’s your favorite movie?”

Questions like that have been popping up from time to time. The girl just seemed bored, so Bruce didn’t think too much of it – it didn’t seem like a sincere attempt to uncover his personal life.

Still, she was persistent. “Are you still ignoring me?”

He had to restrain a sigh. “No.”

“Then why didn’t you answer?”

“Is it really relevant?” he asked, referring to her first question. Bruce glanced at the girl, who peered at him over her mug of soup.

“I just want to know if you have bad taste or not.”

“What makes you think I have bad taste?” and before he knew it, Bruce was knee-deep in conversation and now he couldn’t get out. Nice job.

“Because you’re boring,” the girl replied baldly.

Well, she didn’t mince words, that’s for sure. And yet, the very thought made him laugh (Bruce wouldn’t be in hiding if the US Government thought he was _boring_ ). The girl gave him a strange look, not expecting that reaction. “What, you don’t think you’re boring?”  
  
It was almost tempting to explain to her the irony of it all. But Bruce bit his tongue and said, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

The girl turned her gaze away, grumbling under her breath in dissatisfaction. “I hate it when people say that.”

“Sorry.”

“Alabama.”

“What?” Bruce frowned at her, just as the TV behind him went, “ _What is Alabama_?”

He glanced around, saw _Jeopardy_ playing, then turned back to the girl. She seemed pleased to have gotten the answer right. Had she been watching the entire time? It almost seemed rude. “You watch this show a lot?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

Dammit, there he goes again, poking into things he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to know that about her. The girl seemed to realize what she said as well, a frown flickering across her face before she set the mug down and rolled on her side, turning her back to him as she set her head down on the pillow. She stayed that way for the rest of the night.

That was one of the few occasions where Bruce didn’t have to end the conversation himself. It was sort of a relief and an ease on his mind. He went to bed later that night, only to toss and turn as the Other Guy brought back memories he’d rather forget.

Memories of the Other Guy wreaking havoc — in Brazil, in Virginia, in Canada and New York. Not just breaking things, but killing, too. Those were the worst, a constant reminder of why General Ross was after him, why maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to turn himself in.

He was a murderer, after all. A monster. Things like him belonged in a cage.

Bruce was never fully conscious whenever the Other Guy was in control. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, they were two personalities trapped in the same body; in Bruce’s opinion, been _stolen_ from him. And like in the book, the two sides hated each other, always seeking independence somehow, to destroy the other.

It was an impossible dream, and also a terrifying one. Bruce sometimes had nightmares where it wasn’t him that got full control of his body, but the Other Guy, and the change was irreversible.  
  
These same dreams kept him up every night. Lying in bed, Bruce might sometimes feel it coming, those flashes of green, the oncoming of a nightmare. He’d avoid it by staying awake — too paranoid that the wrong dream, one that triggered his deepest fears, his adrenaline would wake up the Other Guy.

So, instead, he would read. Bruce had plenty of books, most of which he enjoyed. The boring ones sometimes put him in a nap that would at least give him some rest without the risk of falling into a deeper, dangerous sleep.

It wasn’t enough, though. It was never enough.

It wasn’t like he deserved it, anyways.

But despite it all, Bruce just couldn’t bring himself to admit defeat, not entirely, anyways. He couldn’t let Ross win. Bruce had some control; bit by bit, he was getting better, even if it was a one-step-forward-two-steps-back sort of deal.

Above all, his freedom was much too important. And he couldn’t trust the scientists that would do tests on him, that would explore Gamma radiation as a possible weapon, to not abuse this power. It was Bruce’s responsibility, cursed as he was, to keep anyone else from using it. And if that was how he must live his life, then so be it.

That morning, when he went down the stairs, he found the girl reading a book.

At first, Bruce didn’t think much of it – then did a double take when he read the cover, a Harvard study of unproved statistical theorems, and realized she had pulled it from one of his shelves. At first, he didn’t know which was more interesting – One: what did she think she was doing, moving around on her own? Or Two: she didn’t actually _understand_ the study, did she?

“...What are you doing?” he eventually asked, seriously considering if it was a good idea or not. It seemed the Universe was laughing at Bruce; no matter how hard he tried to keep distance between him and the girl, she always did something that required him to get involved in one way or another.

“Reading, duh,” she replied, not looking up at him. “What does it look like, Doc?”

“Are you trying to put yourself to sleep?”

“No, I’m bored,” she said, rolling her eyes and closing the book, throwing Bruce a look of annoyance. “Because _someone_ doesn’t like holding conversations, and I’d rather stick a second knife in my shoulder than stare at the ceiling for another hour.”

Well, how’s that for passive-aggressive? The man just frowned at her, then down at the coffee table. The girl had gathered a couple other books, some on physics, others on genetics, to read in case she ever got through with the one she was reading now.

Seriously doubting her competence (what was she playing at? Did she think impressing him was going to get her anywhere?), Bruce got an idea. He almost smiled as he said, “You know, I can give you some problems to solve, if that helps the time pass.”

“Can you?” She blinked at him, actually looking excited for once. The book flopped in her lap. “I really need to do something.”

That wasn’t the answer he was expecting, but Bruce had already dug himself this deep. It wasn’t that bad, he supposed. He knew the science, the math – the only downside, really, would be if she didn’t, and perhaps accuse him of playing tricks on her. “Fine. Give me that notepad, then.”

The girl reached over, wincing slightly but managing to grab the paper and pen on the coffee table before passing it over to him. Bruce took it as he sat down in his chair, ruminating on what he questions he should ask. He didn’t want to make it too mind-bendingly difficult, but then again, this girl was reading college-level books, things that only people with Masters’ degrees or higher could understand.

Bruce took a second to marvel at the thought. For all he knew, he was in the company of a teen genius. He couldn’t be sure, the only one he’d ever known had been himself, when he was her age. Bruce certainly hadn’t fought crime with that brain of his, so he doubted just how smart this girl might be. If she knew better, she’d save her efforts and put it to good use in the fields of science and medicine, and actually help people, instead of playing hero on the streets and getting herself nearly killed in the process.

But that was kids for you, always thinking they’re invincible. Pah.

As he scrawled down the first question that came to mind, Bruce couldn’t help but think of his own, superpower-lacking high school experience. He had been a small kid, with glasses and a tucked-in shirt, hitting all the marks for a nerdy cliché. It made him easy to pick on. Bruce had never fought back; he’d wished he could, but the few instances in which he tried usually left him in worse shape than if he just took it or ran away.

And the bullies followed him through college and professional life. Pushy professors; more mean kids; a fraternity that eventually got sick of his more-study-less-party attitude. Then, the bosses who refused to tolerate a stuttering man who couldn’t do an impromptu presentation under pressure; who always ended up working late shifts because he was too weak-willed to say no to the men and women who dumped their work on him; the same people who ate his lunch from the break room fridge, knowing how easy he was to be taken advantage of, and that he wouldn’t complain about it.

And, of course, General Ross, who wouldn’t know the line not to be crossed even if there was a giant neon sign in bright flashing colors and carnival music pointed right at it.

Bruce sometimes suspected that was where the Other Guy came from. All that pent up frustration, anger, manifesting with one good dose of concentrated radiation. He didn’t let anyone pick on him anymore, that’s for sure.

(Aggravating, precocious teenagers didn’t count).

“Here, try these,” Bruce handed back the notepad with three questions on it, ones from classes of college-days-past that he remembered spending nights trying to solve. “That should keep you busy for a while.”

“Thanks,” the girl took the pad and studied the questions, her eyes flicking back and forth as she read them over and over. Unlike most students who saw a tough math question and would hang their head or make WTF faces, the girl’s remained impassive. Bruce had a feeling she was putting on a show for him, so he wouldn’t think he’d gotten the better of her.

He would eventually, of course. The last question was also a trick one. That was probably the peevish side of him coming out; a little act of revenge for all the bother the girl gave him. He’d like to see her waste time on that one.

Now properly set into a state of mathematical concentration, the girl was silent and unobtrusive. Bruce sighed, finally relieved to have found a way to distract the girl, since TV clearly wasn’t doing its job.

With that, he got up to make breakfast.

 

* * *

 

           

“If you’re not boring, then what are you?”

Good grief, why couldn’t she just drop the matter? There wasn’t a day that would go by without her deliberately attempting to annoy him. Bruce just wanted to read his book in peace. Weren’t the math and physics questions good enough?

And he had nothing to defend, nothing to prove to the girl. If he just went along, maybe he’d kill her curiosity. “Maybe I _am_ boring. I’m just a doctor.”

“With books on physics and genetics?” the girl pointed out, skeptical. “What, do you just read these when you have nothing better to do?”

This is what Bruce got for letting the girl touch his stuff. He was starting to see the logic of Misery from that Stephen King novel, breaking the legs of her reluctant patient to keep him from moving around on his own. Then he shook his head, removing the disturbing thoughts from his mind. “Isn’t that what _you’re_ doing?”

“I’m also bedridden with half a million new stitches,” the girl reminded him, as if he could somehow forget _that_ little operation. “And I wouldn’t be reading them if _you_ didn’t have them in the first place.”

“Oh, fine.” Bruce grumbled. The more the girl pushed the matter, the less important he valued the information. If he just told her, maybe she would shut up. It wasn’t _that_ vital to his identity, after all, was it? “I, uh, I went for a PhD in physics after getting my medical degree.”

“PhD?” the girl exclaimed, straightening up a little. An incredulous grin appeared on her face, and for a moment the doctor marveled at how bright and childlike she looked when happy. It was such a turn from the usual dour expression. “What, being a regular doctor wasn’t tough enough for you?”

He chuckled to himself. Indeed, it would seem to take a certain level of sadism to compel a man to work so hard. “I had varying interests. And the government helped.”

“You work for the government?”

 _Shut up shut up shut up._ “Not anymore.” _Dammit._

“Yeah,” the girl made a face, settling back into the couch. “I wouldn’t want a bunch of G-Men breathing down my neck, either.”

He was mildly surprised by how well she took the information; even seemed to be on his side. That would probably change had she known the truth. He raised an eyebrow, “Not a fan?”

“Well, I don’t wear a mask for kicks and giggles.”

“Ah, right, your little hobby,” Bruce nodded to himself. Of course she wouldn’t like them, they’d just get in the way.

“It’s not a _hobby_ ,” the girl snapped, suddenly provoked. “I don’t do this for fun, you know. I mean, it is sometimes, but not enough to be worth it.”

Wouldn’t it be, though? Bruce thought that was why she did it; the fun of it, the _thrill_ , the romantic idea of heroism and adventure, from reading too many comic books and watching too many movies. It was half the reason he thought her stupid. “Well, why else would you do it, then?”

She didn’t answer right away, seemed to be ruminating on her answer. Then the girl said, “Because it’s our responsibility. We have these powers, and we’re accountable for them. If we _can_ help people, then we _should_ , because... because it’s the right thing to do.”

For a second, Bruce was speechless. He didn’t expect the girl to feel a sense of _duty_ , of all things, in regards to her abilities. He was even more surprised when he found himself sympathetic. Responsibility was never easy. Even less so when you’re a kid, barely knowing who you are, who you want to be, what to do with yourself.

But it was noble of her to try. Add that with powers, a secret identity, with people you want to protect, and Bruce realized that perhaps he and the girl had a lot more in common than he first thought.

Wait, what was he doing? _Don’t think like that! Don’t get your emotions involved in this!_ Bruce shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and remembered to point out, “Who’s _we_?”

The girl blinked, apparently caught off guard. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed she was speaking in plural. “Oh. I meant we, as in, me and Spider-Man.”

“You know him?”

“Well, he’s the only other guy in town fighting crime in spandex. The responsibility thing was his idea. It’s a pretty good one, I think.”

That was another thing Bruce hadn’t considered. If she and Spider-Man were in cahoots, then wouldn’t that imply there was someone else concerned for her well-being, aside from family? Dealing with the cops or FBI was bad enough; Bruce didn’t want to face the guy who could take one multiple super-villains at once. “Wait, wouldn’t he be worried about you, too, right now?”

“Yeah, but its okay,” the girl replied with an easy, one-shoulder shrug. “He knows I’m all right.”

“How?”

“Because I told him, that’s how.”

Bruce thought back to all the calls the girl made. There were only a few, aside from her cousin, Peter (why did he remember that? He shouldn’t have remembered that). It was possible that she could’ve sent a message to him that way. “Do you know his secret identity?”

She paused. “No.”

Hm, that sounded like a lie, but Bruce decided not to call her out on it. He didn’t want to know any more about Spider-Man than he did about this girl. Whatever she did with her life, that was her business, and Bruce was trying (and, apparently, failing) to stay out of it. “Well, I imagine you wouldn’t tell me if you did.”

“You got that right, Doc.”

Bruce smiled, more to himself than anyone else. Maybe she wasn’t so dumb after all.

           

* * *

 

 

Then, on the fourth night, disaster occurred.

Okay, well, it wasn’t _exactly_ a disaster, but it had been quite possibly the most unexpected and destructive experience within that household since the girl had arrived.

The girl was sleeping, as usual. Bruce had been in the kitchen, sipping a freshly made cup of coffee to enable yet another one of his sleepless nights. On the news there had been reports of a supervillain showdown at the Rockefeller Center, toppling their iconic seasonal Christmas tree and injuring at least ten civilians. Although he lived in the Village and the Rockefeller center was more than thirty blocks away, it felt much closer in a dense city like this.

As far as Bruce knew, there had never been any major battles within this particular neighborhood. He’d seen Spider-Man swoop by a couple times, maybe nab a few crooks, but nothing that got his blood pressure up. Nothing like this.

What would happen if some weirdo like Doctor Octopus or Green What’s-His-Face came barreling in, wreaking havoc? What happened if they knocked over the wrong house? Bruce’s status as ordinary, anonymous taxpayer was a tenuous one – if he so much as burned his hand on the stove, or a big book fell on his toe, the Other Guy would come bursting out.

Maybe the Other Guy might crush those supervillains and save New York some trouble. He’d rip those stupid octopus arms off in a second, smash that Goblin into the ground. Bruce wasn’t afraid of them.

He was afraid of what he might do to the people who got caught in the crossfire.

It was in the midst of this coffee-addled reverie did Bruce hear something. At first, it was only in the back of his mind, a little extra background noise that his ears didn’t pick up as significant until they got louder.

A low whimper. Bruce picked his head up, frowning in the direction of the living room. Was that the girl? Why was she up again?

At first, Bruce thought she might’ve been trying to say something to him, perhaps somehow intuiting that he was nearby (well, he always was, but that’s not the point). Then there was a keening sound, like a wounded animal. It didn’t sound like the girl at all.

Concern growing, Bruce set down his coffee mug and made his way into the living room, flicking on the lights.

On the couch, the girl was writhing, tangling with the blanket. It became quickly clear that she was having a nightmare, if her closed eyes and unintelligible words were anything to go by.

But her frantic struggling against an invisible enemy was not the thing that caught Bruce’s attention.

No, it was the floating books.

The first thing that went through Bruce’s mind was a poltergeist, a pissed off ghost trying to scare the inhabitants of the house. Of course, this would only be funny in hindsight; Bruce figured it out pretty quick that this was not paranormal activity, but rather the manifestation of the girl’s powers, only unfamiliar because he had never witnessed them before.

That was probably the core of the problem, if not her nightmares. Everything on the coffee table was in the air, tumbling through the room with reckless abandon. Even the table itself was hovering a few inches, perhaps too heavy to be thrown around like everything else, but no less in the way.

Books went flying around in random orbit, one nearly hitting Bruce’s head had he not ducked at the last second.

“Whoa!” He stumbled and fell against the wall, heart starting to pound. A glance at his watch told him his heart rate was picking up, in time to the adrenalin rushing in his veins.

It wasn’t dangerous. Yet.

Bruce straightened and came to the conclusion that he needed to wake the girl up. Whatever was going on, it was because her mind was convinced it was somewhere else, activating her powers as a defense mechanism.

An empty mug hit another book and spun wildly, a ceramic missile, straight into the wall. It shattered to a million pieces, leaving a small dent behind in the wall paper.

Getting to her might be an issue, though.

As much as he didn’t want to, Bruce knew that he had to step into the range of potentially deadly (for her) objects. A part of him just wanted to wait out the nightmare, hoping that she’ll eventually wake up and all this will stop on its own — but Bruce had made up his mind when one of the books knocked down his lamp and shattered the bulb.

Okay, it was one thing to let an abnormal girl into his house and bring her back to health; it was _another matter entirely_ when her unconscious mind might ruin his living room (as if it hadn’t been already).

Taking a step forward, Bruce flinched when the notepad smacked against his shoulder, too small to do any real damage, but still startling none the less. Nothing seemed to be targeting him, at least not yet, and Bruce managed to get to the couch unhindered. He even pushed the coffee table out of the way, frictionless as it hovered on thin air.

The girl was in such a state of terror that Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how to snap her out of it. He feared touching her, partly because she might hit him on accident, and partly because he might hurt _her_ , if she fought back too hard. Already, Bruce was afraid she might have pulled her stitches. It would be awful having to redo all that work.

Then, her hand struck out, and Bruce surprised himself when he caught her wrist. Not entirely sure where he’d gotten such reflexes, Bruce surprised himself again when he grabbed her other arm, also jerking around, if hindered by the sling. “Hey, hey, easy there!”

She seized, apparently able to sense the physical stimulus, but not enough to wake her up. Tears were streaming down her face and her breathing came out in sharp gasps, like she was running a marathon.

Bruce ducked as a book made another fly-by, and he kneeled down to better avoid the projectiles — the only thing they _didn’t_  seem to hit was the girl herself, and that seemed to be a safe bet that he wouldn’t be attacked here.

“Come on, wake up!” for the first time, Bruce wished he’d known her name, because it might’ve been easier to call her back to consciousness. He was pretty sure that had been in a study once, patients waking to their own name being called more often than anything else. “Please, wake up. It’s just a bad dream; whatever it is, it’s not real...”

But his words proved useless, and eventually Bruce had to resort to letting go of her wrists and grabbing the girl’s shoulders, and shaking her awake (gently!). “Just open your eyes, it’s not real, just wake up —!”

The girl gasped, her eyes flying open. Her elbows jerked, the one in the sling catching Bruce in the gut and knocking the wind out of him. He fell back on one arm, wheezing a little ( _dammit! She’s getting stronger_ ), as the girl scrambled to a sitting position, her head whipping around as though she didn’t recognize the place.

Words were already flying out of her mouth before Bruce could recollect himself. “Not again, not again, not again, not again...!”

The girl finally seemed to notice the flying objects and flinched at the sight. Right on cue, everything stopped moving. There was a huge clatter as all the books and papers dropped like rocks, suddenly lifeless once more. The table made a muffled thump on the carpet as it returned to the floor.

She sucked in a huge, shuddering breath, clutching her arms to her chest, before breaking down into sobs.

Mildly stunned, Bruce shook his head and looked around at the damage. Two times in one week — the Universe was outright laughing at him now.

Well, Bruce decided he didn’t give a damn about what the Universe thought was funny anymore. There was a manic, crying girl in front of him, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to make it better.

But being a doctor had its perks, such as knowing how to deal with upset patients. He reached out a consoling hand, resting it on her arm. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re safe now. It was just a bad dream.”

The girl flinched at his touch, and Bruce snapped his hand back, suddenly afraid he’d hurt her. All those repressed memories, the flashbacks, of people looking at the Other Guy — at _him_ — in fear, in terror, in hatred, came rushing back to him.

Granted, the context was different, but for some reason Bruce couldn’t stop himself from thinking that this was somehow his fault.

It was clear after the fact that the girl wasn’t afraid of him, just in shock from whatever mental torture she had experienced. Bruce wasn’t sure if he should just let her cry it out or talk her through it. He was feeling pretty useless just kneeling there, so he said, “What happened? What did you see?”

It took her a few tries to speak, trying to work her tongue around stifling sobs and erratic breathing. “I-i-it w-wa-wasn’t s-s-supposed —”

He pressed a hand to her arm again, hoping it wouldn’t startle her. It didn’t. “Shh. Just take your time. Deep breaths, remember?”

The girl nodded, keeping her head bowed as she sucked in one painful, hiccupy gasp after another, until they became regular and the weeping started to lessen. Her eyes still closed, she started to speak again. “I-it’s was him. It wasn’t s-s-supposed to be h-him. He’s s-sup-p-posed to be to d-d-dead.”

Bruce froze, his mind catching on the word. He had absolutely no idea what this was about, and his gut clenched with dread. This sounded much more serious than the average super-hero business. “Who? Who’s supposed to be dead?”

“The man,” she said, half-whispering, forcing Bruce to strain and catch her words, already marred by her half-choked sobs. “K-Koppel. The s-s-security guard. He’s d-dead because of me. Or w-was.”

“What happened?”

“I was f-f-fighting G-Goliath,” the girl hiccupped, wiping at her face with her sleeve. “B-because of Sm-Smoke and his st-stupid-ass decision to r-rob a h-high security b-bank. Goliath was waiting, p-protecting the K-Key, what-whatever it was. He attacked us. Tw-twice. The s-second time’s reason I-I’m h-here.”

“Goliath’s the one who stabbed you?” Bruce had a vague idea of what happened to the girl, thanks to what Smoke told him. But Smoke hadn’t witnessed the entire battle, and obviously didn’t hang around to see what the cops made of it. There had also been news, but reports were brief and even less clear, and Bruce never turned it on when the girl was awake.

“N-no, it was K-Koppel.”

“But I thought you were fighting Goliath,”

“N-no,” the girl said again, shaking her head and pressing her hands to her face. Her words were muffled when she said, “Koppel _is_ Goliath. They turned him into a cyborg.”

“They?” Creepy cyborg people were, unfortunately, not the worst thing Bruce had ever heard of. That didn’t mean that the girl’s story still didn’t make any sense. “Who’s they?”

But the girl could only shrug helplessly. “I d-don’t know. I-I don’t know. I don’t know any-anything...”

From the tremor in her voice, Bruce was afraid that she was going to start crying again, but instead the girl went on to say, “I l-lost control. I c-couldn’t th-think, c-couldn’t b-b-breathe. I t-tore him _apart_. And n-now I can’t e-even c-c-control m-my own p-powers. I b-b-broke your st-stuff. I’m-I’m losing m-my m-mind.”

That seemed a bit melodramatic, although maybe his perspective was skewed in that he didn’t find her powers particularly terrifying. But he knew that to validate her fears would not make them go away, so he said, “It was just a nightmare. Even the best of us get them,” _and sometimes the worst_. “You’ve just been under a lot of stress. I told you not to move around too much.”

The girl finally looked at him, only to roll her eyes. Unbelievable. “Gee, t-thanks, I-I really n-need the l-lecture right n-now.”

She slumped back against the pillow, covering her face as the last vestiges of misery wore themselves out. Bruce looked around, eyeing the mess, wondering if he should start picking up _now_ or wait until morning. He really didn’t want to do any midnight clean-ups, but he also knew he probably wouldn’t be going back to bed until she did.

The girl’s hands fell into her lap. She sniffed. “C-can you say something?”

He blinked at her, frowning a little. “What? Like a bedtime story? I’m afraid I don’t know a lot of those.”

The girl attempted another eye roll, but she seemed too exhausted to complete it. Her head fell against the side of the couch and she sighed. “I-I don’t know, j-just anything. Something else to th-think about.”

“Well, okay, then,” Bruce was sure he could think of something, even though it’d probably bore her. Then again, maybe that was the point. He sat back on the floor, turning a little so his back was resting against the seat of the couch, taking a second to think. Then he started to speak.

“When I was in college, there was this kid, we'll call him Phil, in my Theoretical Physics class. He was a smart guy, well, I mean, everyone was, they had to be, but this guy kind of stuck out because he didn’t work well in groups. Too quiet, passive, the kind of person who’d let you copy his work just so the group got a good grade.”

“S-sounds like a shmuck,” the girl mumbled behind him.

Bruce chuckled to himself. “Yeah. Yeah, he kind of was. Maybe Phil thought he’d make friends that way, but I think a lot of people just took him for granted. But there was one person in particular he liked. This other student, a girl named Betty. The smartest one in the class. She had always raised her hand, had an answer to every question. Even if she might’ve been wrong, she wasn’t afraid of anything.”

"You're probably thinking this is just a silly love story, a quirky, awkward guy with a beautiful woman out of his league, like in the movies," he said, and heard a little snort in response. "But it's not. This guy, Phil, he wasn't just some innocent, socially-inept dork - he didn't care about what other people thought of him, because he was smarter than then were. He didn't think that their work was valid, especially not in comparison to his own, which to be fair, was almost better than the professor's. The problem was he let it get to his head. He was too proud to ever admit he was wrong."

"Did he think Betty was just going to fall in love with that big brain of his?" The girl asked, perhaps already guessing where this story might be going. "And completely ignore the fact that he was an asshole?"

"Maybe. A guy can dream, I suppose, but Betty wasn't an idiot. She worked with him sometimes, on projects, but it was pretty clear she only saw him as a classmate, a friend. She seemed to have a positive effect on him, though. He was a bit more open, nicer, and got a little better at talking to people. He actually made friends, thanks to her, enough that he got connections, worked on big projects before he was even done graduating. Companies and agencies were practically fighting each other just to have him for themselves."

"Sounds like a nice story to me," the girl remarked.

"Yeah, well," Bruce rubbed the back of his head. "It doesn't stay that way. See, Phil got hired by the military, for a way to make better weapons for the army. Betty was there, too, maybe part of the reason he agreed to work. And they developed this idea, something so crazy it bordered on brilliant, but the heads of the program were doubtful. It'd take time to get the experiments going, first on animals, even longer for human trials. But Phil, he knew he had it right. In fact, he had such utter faith in his own ability that he didn't give it a second thought when he decided to skip the wait and use himself as a test subject. He didn't once consider the possibility that he might be wrong."

He heard the girl shift under the blanket, and he imagined there was an expression of surprise or apprehension on her face. "What...what happened to him?"

"Oh, he died. Almost killed Betty, too." Bruce sounded almost painfully nonchalant, but it was the only way he could tell this story. "And thanks to him, the government doesn't allow any unsanctioned biochemical tests on their ground, and will seize any product thereof. The end."

"Wait, that's it?" The girl sounded so peeved that Bruce had to look at her. She was frowning at him. "That's not a happy ending at all."

"You didn't ask for one." He just shrugged.

The girl squinted at him, unamused. "Then what's the moral of the story? I don't get it."

"No, that's too easy," Bruce grunted as he got back to his feet. With the girl no longer crying, and the story over, it was time to call it a night. He had successfully worn himself out, physically and emotionally. "If I have to tell you, then you'll never learn."


	16. Veritas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be longer, with a shift to Amy's POV, but I felt that it would negate the impact of the feelings I was trying to create here, so I'm saving it for next chapter. Anyways, enjoy!

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Veritas**

* * *

 

 

The events of the previous night went unspoken that next morning. When it finally came down to it, Bruce was kind of freaked out by it, finally understanding that just how dangerous this girl could be. Did she say she _tore_ Goliath _apart_? What did that even mean?

What Smoke had told him gave Bruce an idea, but it didn’t assuage any of his previous fears.

He decided not to face it until the girl made it important by bringing it up herself. So far, she hadn’t, and spent most of the day working on the equations he had given her. She had solved the first one yesterday, her work scattered across several spare sheets. Her handwriting was messy, mostly because she was using her left, non-dominant hand.

She seemed all right, though. She still annoyed him through conversation that he couldn’t avoid, smiled every once in a while, and ate all her food, eating a little more now, actually. It wouldn’t be long until she could leave. He imagined she was just counting down the hours now.

But her behavior was muted, her attempts at conversation only half-hearted. Bruce might’ve been doing them both a favor by rebuking her, but he didn’t have the heart. A part of him actually kind of liked having someone there to talk to. It was nice to feel so lonely all the time.

Smoke popped by again, apparently just to bring more supplies but Bruce suspected it might be something else.

His suspicions were confirmed, of course, when Smoke spent the rest of his stay crouching behind the arm of the couch, looking over the girl’s shoulder as she tried to finish the second question.

“Do you actually _understand_ that?” Smoke asked her, half joking and half serious. “Are you really doing this for fun?”

“There’s nothing else for me to do,” she said, tilting her head to frown at him. “Stop breathing on my hair.”

“So you’re telling me that you’re this supersmart teenager who can solve intense physics problems while she’s high,” Smoke said, leaning away from her a little bit. “Only to waste all of that by punching robbers in the face every day?”

“That’s what I said,” Bruce called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, see?” Smoke said, raising a hand as if that was all the proof he needed to show the girl that she was crazy.

“If you’re saying I’m wasting my talents while I could be finding a cure for cancer, then save it,” the girl snapped, putting down the notepad to glare at the ceiling. “This is _my_ way of helping people, and I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job, thank you very much.”

Smoke just huffed, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah, okay. So, are you still going on a date with this mystery guy?”

“I am so not talking about this with you.”

“Oh, come on! You gotta at least tell me how you two met. Was it love at first sight?”

The teasing in Smoke’s voice had come to the point where Bruce was worried that the girl might punch him, or worse, use her powers. Smoke may be a clever thief, but he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

Surprising, the girl didn’t attack anyone. “We bumped into each other and he spilled his coffee on me. He apologized and tried to ask me out to make up for it. I don’t know, it was stupid.”

“Are you kidding me?” Smoke started to laugh. “That’s, like, right out of every rom-com ever. The classic Meet Cute. You’re telling me you actually fell for that?”

“You’re telling me he did that on purpose?” she shot back.

“I don’t know. Maybe. You’d be surprised how low a guy will go just to get a girl. He’s probably just a PUA — a pick-up artist, if you didn’t know, and they totally ruin the game for the rest of us who’re actually looking for meaningful relationships.”

The girl laughed so hard Bruce wondered if she might pull her stitches. “Oh, my god, don’t tell me you’re a romantic all of a sudden?”

“All of a sudden? Excuse me, but I’m Italian. If anyone knows romance, it’s us.”

Eavesdropping was fun and all, but Bruce couldn’t help but call from the kitchen, “I thought you said you were from Jersey!”

“That’s irrelevant!” Smoke retorted over the girl’s chortling. “Besides, Jersey has a _healthy_ Italian population and I don’t know why it gets so much flak as it does.”

“Jersey just _wishes_ it was as cool as New York,” the girl said, clearly trying to provoke Smoke. “But it tries too hard.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” the thief growled, sounding like he was rolling his eyes. “You don’t appreciate anything I do. I’m still waiting for that thank you card, by the way.”

“Well, let me just walk on over to the nearest drug store looking like the patient of the week from _Grey’s Anatomy_. I’m sure that’ll go well.”

“So you’re _not_ going to do it?”

“I didn’t say _that_. Can you at least wait until I’m able to walk again?”

“Which isn’t going to happen if you talk her death,” Bruce finally interjected, walking back into the living room with a fresh mug of coffee. Smoke was camped out on the floor, and Bruce wondered why he wasn’t more bothered by the fact he was harboring known fugitives in his own house. He was getting _way_ too used to this.

“Fine, I didn’t want to stay anyways,” Smoke huffed with exaggerated pomp, getting up and brushing off his jacket. “I hope you nerds have fun with your silly math equations and _Jeopardy._ ”

Bruce didn’t bother to correct him, just nodded in the satisfaction of knowing that at least _Smoke_ would listen to him. He walked around them, heading up the stairs when he saw the girl move, catching Smoke’s wrist before he could leave. “Smoke, wait.”

He only barely heard her words before she went out of earshot. “I need you to do something for me...”

* * *

 ****  
  


The girl figured it out on December 23rd, two days after she remembered what happened.

Bruce should've known something was wrong when she didn't speak to him when he got up that morning. The girl seemed to have already been up for awhile, yet the TV was off and the books remained closed. She didn't look up when he came down the stairs.

He passed by her on the way to the kitchen. Unaware, he asked, "Up already? I didn't think you were a morning person."

"You lied to me."

Bruce froze in the doorway. All his previous thoughts vanished as panic took him. What had she found out? Was it the Other Guy? How would she have known? Was she going to the police, tell them she was held captive by a...by a _monster_?

There was only one way to find out. Bruce was almost too afraid to know. Then, slowly, he turned around.

The girl had gotten off the couch, was now standing upright. Despite the sling and the bandages and the hospital slacks, the girl appeared fearless. She looked him right in the eye. "You lied to me. Why?"

"I..." Bruce opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, but nothing came out. He couldn't hold her gaze, turned his attention to the coffee table as he ran a hand through his hair. God dammit. He should've known this would have backfired right in his face. "I just wanted to keep you safe."

"You wanted _me_ to be safe?" The girl repeated in a critical tone, pointing at herself. "Because to me it sounds like you're trying to protect yourself. _I_ wanted your help. You saw what happened, with the books. I told you what I did to Goliath. But you still didn't say anything. You didn't care."

Wait, _that's_ what she was upset about? Bruce had completely miscalculated the situation - but he was no less out of his depth. He tried to correct himself, maybe give her an explanation she'd understand. Back pedaling, Bruce said, "No, I -"

"You didn't care!" She yelled, gaze glimmering and fragile. Bruce could hear the glass rattling in the kitchen cabinets behind him. Her fists clenched and she shook her head, "and you call yourself a doctor. What a joke."

"Y-you don't understand, I'm not, I mean, I _can't_..." Bruce stuttered over his words, trying to find the right thing to say. He was walking on thin ice - the girl was _this close_ to bringing down the whole house, and neither of them wanted that. "Look, I'm not the guy you think I am, okay? I'm not that kind of doctor. I diagnose physical injuries, I patch them up, that's it. I don't have the-the _temperament_ for what you need."

"So, what you told me, back in November," the girl said, glaring at him through her tears. "Was just _bullshit_?"

He closed his eyes, rubbed his hand over his face, pushing his glasses up on his head. "Yes and no. It was...it was based on personal experience. Obviously, it's-its subjective. And it barely even worked for me. Smoke only asked for temporary help, and that's what I provided. I didn't promise anything else."

"So you can't help me." The girl surmised through gritted teeth.

He exhaled, leaning against the doorframe. "Not in that way, no."

The girl huffed, lifting her chin and taking a deep breath. Bruce expected her to say something, maybe further insult him, but he was surprised when she just turned around and walked away.

He looked up, frowning, as she wrenched the door open. What was she doing? She wasn't actually going to _leave_ , was she? Bruce pushed himself off the wall, concern accidentally slipping into his voice. "W-Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving," She snapped, turning one last furious look at him. her gray eyes flashing like metal. She was shaking all over, her balance uneven. Her arm was bleeding from where she ripped the IV out. "Won't that make you happy?"

Bruce imagined she wanted to make a dramatic exit, because teenagers and their overinflated egos. The girl burst open the door, stepped into the freezing cold open air. Whatever effect she was going for, it was ruined before she even made it down the front steps. It was icy from recent snowfall and she slipped in her haste and anger, and disappeared from sight with a startled yelp.

Bruce scrambled after her, images of the girl cracking her skull against the frozen ground flashing in his mind. _No, no, no!_ He had seen the results too many times in hospitals to let it happen again on his watch.

But the girl had caught herself against the metal railing, crumpling on the steps in a heap. He came to a stop behind the screen door, watching her behind the glass. She just sat there, hunched and defeated. What was she going to do, wait until a cab drove by? Where did she have left to go?

Bruce allowed the girl a moment of silence before cracking the door open. He spoke softly, "Come back inside. It's freezing out here."

The girl flinched at his words, her shoulders hunching further and her head ducking down, but she said nothing. The girl curled inward, hugging herself, trying to conserve whatever warmth and dignity she had left.

Realizing it was going to take a lot more than that to breach her stubbornness, Bruce groaned inwardly and stepped out into the chilly air. He had the foresight to grab his coat on the hook, but didn't put it on as he intended to. Bruce wasn't sure why, but his thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. He had to do something now, not back out and prove the girl right, even though she already was.

As he stepped down, the girl huddled against the railing, as if to put more distance between them. Bruce sat down on the step above her, clasping his hands together before saying in his most earnest tone, "Will you _please_ come back inside?"

"Why?" She asked, her voice thick with tears and bitterness. The girl seemed ashamed of her crying, and kept her face turned away from him, even when he tried to get a better look at her. "You don't want me here anyways."

"No," he admitted, sheepish, but made himself stern when he said, "but I want you to go home in one piece. I'm not letting you freeze to death."

"Drop dead." She muttered, icy as the winter around them.

 _If it were only that easy_. Bruce heaved a sigh. Well, he tried his best, but it seemed as though no amount of appeasement could make her listen to him now. "Well, if you ever change your mind, the door's unlocked."

He made to press his hand onto her shoulder, perhaps as a show of reassurance. But Bruce paused, his hand inches from her skin, before realizing that it would be a bad idea. The girl would react negatively, maybe even leave altogether. But he couldn't force her inside, either. Instead, Bruce took the coat, nearly forgotten in his lap, and stood up. Before going inside, however, he place the coat over the girl's shoulders - it was far too big for her, but at least it would keep her mildly warm for the time being.

Then he went back inside.

There was a high possibility that the girl might just take off with his coat, but somehow that didn't bother the doctor. He considered it would be karmic, retribution for his behavior, whether it was really deserving or not.

Either way, Bruce felt guilty. Not enough to back down from his stance, however; perhaps that was why he was being so lenient.

The girl only stayed outside for another twenty minutes before finding the cold less tolerable than the inside of the house. She returned to her place on the couch and did not so much as speak or even look at Bruce for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

On Christmas Eve morning, Bruce came down the stairs, almost experiencing a sense of déjà vu with the dread building in his stomach. He could barely sleep the night before; all he could think about was the things he wanted to say to the girl, try to make things better between them. It was his fault, after all. He shouldn't have treated her that way.

But the couch was empty. The sling lay abandoned on the table. The IV bag was empty, the tube coiled around the hook. The blanket was folded neatly on one end of the couch, the pillow fluffed up and perked on the other.

She was gone.

Bruce stumbled over the last step, caught off guard by the sudden absence. He caught himself on the railing, stared at the empty living room. Even the books had been put away, all in their right spots. It was almost as if she had never even been here at all.

A sudden desperation came over him, a type of worry he hadn't experienced in ages. Where did the girl go? When did she leave? Why didn't she say anything? She didn't even give him a chance to make things right. It wasn't fair.

Bruce got a hold of himself before his thoughts could get away from him. No, this was completely fair. It was what he deserved.

 


	17. In Absentia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that weird month-long hiatus. I had a summer painting class that took place everyday, and it kind of sucked all my creative juices out of me. I did a little bit of writing, but Falcon is usually a tougher job for me. A lot of stuff to remember, but I guess that's my fault.
> 
> Throughout that period, I've spent some deep thinking on what I want to happen for Falcon, and I've got some news:
> 
> —I'm thinking of ending the series either in this story, or in a third one. I had a whole five part arc planned out, but I just don't have the energy or motivation to continue writing this story. I like it, but it just gets too long, and I've put so much extra canon in there that sometimes I forget what I write and its almost a chore now.
> 
> — If I do decide to write a third part to finish this story off, I plan to include Daredevil (inspired by the Netflix series, not the 2003 movie) and the appearance of the Hulk, not just Bruce Banner. In fact, if you haven't already noticed, a certain blind lawyer has already made his appearance in previous chapters. I have been planning this for a while, I just don't know how to pace it.
> 
> — If there's a third part, I think I will have to limit myself to twenty to twenty five chapters, or three mini-arcs. I want to put more Peter in there, so we still get his storyline, and maybe have some conclusion to what happens with the Osborn's. We'll also get the identity of the man in charge of the White Rose, as well as the identity of Amy's MIA father.
> 
> — I also want to write another version of Falcon - like how there's a Spectacular Spider-Man and an Amazing Spider-Man, same character and concept but different storylines and themes. This new version coincides with the MCU and would tie it together with Sony's the Amazing Spider-Man (of course). The main difference is that it changes the identity of Amy's father (who becomes a canon character from one of the movies, but still a mystery! And thus even more plot important), rather than an OC I made up in my head. Amy's superhero name will also change, I think, but I haven't come up with one I like yet. However, the title of the story will probably be INCANDESCENT.
> 
> It would start pre-Avengers, where the summer would be the Battle of New York, and Amy gets her powers in the following months. Peter would have gotten bit by the spider earlier that May or April.
> 
> If you have any thoughts on this, please put it in a review or send it in a PM! I'd like to know what you, the readers, think would best serve the story. —
> 
> Sorry for that super-long note! Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Seventeen**

**In Absentia**

* * *

 

 

“Amy! Where the hell have you _been_?”

Instead of going home, I went back to Aunt May’s. It was the farthest from the Village I could get without ending up somewhere cold and hungry. And I figured Peter deserved an explanation for my week-and-a-half absence.

He stood in the doorway, staring at me standing on the stoop. Peter’s expression was a cross between relief and anger. “And where did you get that jacket?”

Before coming here, I had burned my old suit — it was completely unsalvageable, what with the blood and giant tears — in an old oil barrel a few bums were using to keep warm. I left my helmet in the Hell’s Kitchen apartment, since I definitely wouldn’t be using it for a while. I wasn’t sure when I’d get back to being a vigilante, but right now I wasn’t too worried about it. I was too tired to care.

Then I went to a nearby thrift store to get some more suitable clothes. I was lucky, really; there weren’t a lot of shops open on Christmas Eve at six in the morning. I had a few dollars on me and found the thickest sweater I could find, along with some boots that were a size too big.

The cashier lady had taken pity on me, apparently thinking I was homeless or a runaway, what with my bare feet and general unhealthiness. She added a hat to my purchase for free, even though I didn’t ask for it, and maybe felt a little miffed to be seen as a charity case; but I was grateful enough to say thank you and leave without a fuss.

“It’s a long story,” I sighed, my voice a little hoarse. The bitter wind turned my cheeks red and ears numb. My fingers were so stiff that I had to press them against the wood just to knock on it. “I’ll explain later. Right now, I could eat a horse. Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course you can,” Peter looked scandalized that I even had to ask. I was feeling pretty sheepish at the moment, and I hadn’t been here in so long that it felt weird just to walk right in. “Are you all right? You look really pale.”

“Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I need food heavy in iron.” I said, trying to sound natural in order to keep Peter from worrying too much.

It didn’t really work. A line formed between his brow, but he nodded, closing the door as he said, “Well, we got leftover Chinese food in the fridge you can probably have. Aunt May’s been cooking all day, so she’s taking a nap.”

There seemed to be some extra weight in those words. I cast him a side glance. “Is she angry, too?”

“I’m not _angry_ ,” Peter shot back, heading towards the kitchen. I followed him, flexing my hands in the wonderful warmth filling the house. “And yes. But it’s because she’s worried.”

“Right,” I mumbled, wincing internally. Sometimes I forgot I still had people to answer to, that I wasn’t as completely alone as I’d like to be. “I think I better eat and get some calories to my brain before I talk to her.”

“Good plan.”

I kind of just wanted to keel over and die. My eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, and as I sat down at the table, I had to prop up my chin just to keep my head from dropping. I still felt weak and woozy, and making a cross-city trip in zero degrees did not make it any better. It had already gotten dark by the time I made it here.

Peter closed the fridge and tossed the paper container across the tabletop. A fork was stuck in the top. “There’s your noodles, beef, and green leafy things. Rich in iron, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” honestly, I would’ve eaten anything Peter put in front of me at that moment. Grabbing the fork, I started shoveling food in my mouth, not even caring for politeness or etiquette.

Peter sat opposite me, watching in silence. He tilted his head, a curious frowning pulling on his face. “So what happened?”

I paused to take a big gulp (ow), before saying, “Er, well, you know that friend I talk to you about?”

“You mean the thief who has a crush on you?”

“What? He doesn’t —” I spluttered, shaking my head, too scandalized to even _consider_ the thought, or how casually Peter said it. “He’s not — that’s not the point! Look, it’s all his fault, okay? If he didn’t still that stupid Key thing, then I wouldn’t have gotten a knife in my back!”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “Whoa, _what_? You didn’t say anything about knives! Is that why you’re limping?”

“I’m not — I’m limping?” I hadn’t even noticed. Or maybe I was too tired. The latter seemed to be my default excuse as of recent events. I just shrugged, then winced when the stitches protested. “Well, then, yeah, it is.”

I gave Peter an abridged version of what happened. Including Doc, who saved me, and why I left sooner than I probably should have. Also why I had this coat, which was not mine. He listened, growing a little pale in parts, but nodding occasionally in understanding.

When I was finished, Peter remained silent for a second, staring at the tabletop before saying, “So you didn’t get this guy’s name?”

“Uh, no,” I shook my head. It was an easy lie, even though I only had a first name anyways. I didn’t know why I was protecting the Doc; maybe it was thanks for saving my life, even if he was kind of liar about everything. But whatever. I didn’t want Peter poking his nose where he shouldn’t. “All I got was that he was a doctor. Smoke knew him somehow.”

“Really? And this Doc guy is legit?”

“Apparently.”

“But you hate him,” Peter surmised, even though I had never said it aloud.

I just made a face, sighing to myself. “Yeah. No. I don’t know. I’m angry and I don’t plan on ever going back; that’s all that matters.”

“And what if you get hurt again?”

“I won’t.”

Peter gave me a hard look. “But what if you do?”

Why was he being so stubborn about this? I learned my lesson. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be dealing with anyone like Goliath again. “It _won’t_. In fact, I’m not going to be doing anything for a while. I’m officially grounded.”

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but it was another voice that said, “You got that right, young lady.”

We both spun around in our seats, startled to find Aunt May standing in the doorway, arms crossed and about as angry as I’d ever seen her. I went frozen underneath her bespectacled glare. Aunt May was a patient woman, perhaps a product of all her years, her patience as thick as her gray hair.

It took something truly amazing for Aunt May to lose that patience. Of course it was me that had to find out the hard way.

“A-Aunt May,” I said, stuttering and trying to swallow the lump of fear in my throat. I hadn’t seen or heard her approach — and my radar was out of commission, thanks to my healing factor. Lovely how that worked out. “I didn’t...I mean, I’m sorry —”

“Sorry? Sorry for not calling? For not leaving a message?” Aunt May fired back, making me cringe.

I shrunk into my too-big sweater, while Peter slunk out of his seat, trying to make a quick getaway. But Aunt May grabbed his sleeve, as though using him as an example of my carelessness. He looked extremely uncomfortable as she went on, “You made Peter cover for you! All this nonsense about staying in Gwen’s house! I called them, you know — imagine my surprise when I learned that Captain Stacy hadn’t seen you in over a week!”

Apparently, Peter took some offence to this, raising a quaking finger and saying, “H-hey, she didn’t make me do any —”

“Quiet, Peter,” Aunt May said, and he clamped his mouth shut. May did not remove her gaze from me even for a second. She planted a hand on her hip. “Where in God’s name were you? I was sick with worry! I thought you might’ve taken the wrong bus and was lost or, heaven forbid, gotten kidnapped! I was _this close_ to calling Captain Stacy and issuing a missing person’s report! He’s a good man, and he knows you — there isn’t a shadow of a doubt that he’d have the whole NYPD out looking for you.”

“Well, actually,” somehow, the nerdy part of my brain took over my mouth and I started speaking before I could stop myself. “The FBI are usually the ones who handle missing children cases —”

“Are you giving me lip?”

I turned my gaze to the floor. “No, ma’am.”

Aunt May sniffed, still looking like she might have another rant or two up her sleeve. “Good. I thought Peter was bad enough, but you have clearly taken the cake, Amelia. What would your mother say?”

Oh, man, she pulled a double-whammy; using my full name _and_ mentioning Mom, in almost the same sentence! But I couldn’t make myself be angry or snippy at Aunt May for doing it. If anything, she was the only person in the whole world who had that right. I didn’t have a word to say.

She waited, anyways, and that was torture enough. Aunt May softened though, her shoulders falling when she saw the look on my face. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to say it like that. You just had me so scared. You two have gotten so out of control these past few months, you’ve got this old lady losing her mind. I’m putting both of you on curfew.”

“Wait, what did I do?” Peter complained, surprised. He threw me a scowl, and I knew this whole thing wasn’t over yet.

Great, now my whole family was angry at me. Just perfect. Everything was my fault, wasn’t it?

“For being an enabler to this bad behavior,” Aunt May said, not the least bit out of sorts. “And you’re no angel, either, Peter. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll both learn better from each other. Amelia, I want — no, _you will_ be living here for the rest of the season, and no buts! I’m not letting you stay in that freezing apartment all by yourself. After school, I want you both home before 4 PM, when it gets dark out. That goes for weekends, too. It’s too cold to be out so late.”

“How long?” I finally managed to say, little more than a mumble.

“How long?” Aunt May frowned. “Well, for as long as it takes for you to learn your lesson. But since that seems unlikely, it’ll have to be until February.”

“February?!” Peter and I exclaimed.

“Yes, February,” Aunt May said. She almost seemed to smile at our reactions. “That way you’ll both be able to catch up on your school work and maybe get those grades back up. Especially you, Amelia. I don’t know how, but you’ve actually dropped to a _C_ in Physics. I got the report cards yesterday.”

I groaned, my head falling into my hands. Not just for my punishment, but because I had totally forgotten about the test last Tuesday — the one I conveniently missed thanks to my little sports injury. I hoped I’d get the chance to retake it. I couldn’t have a C marring my semester grade; what if it affected my chances of getting into college?

“Well, now that the ground rules are set,” Aunt May finally let go of Peter, who rubbed his arm with a pout. “It’s time for dinner. Pot roast, anyone?”

As Aunt May headed over to the oven (I didn’t even realize it had been cooking, or the smell filling up the room. _That’s_ how tired I was), Peter flopped in the seat next to mine, muttering, “Thanks a lot,”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” I shot back, not appreciating his attitude. “I’ll try harder not to die next time.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but he deflated, anger leaving him. “Sorry. It’s just... do you know how hard its going to be now? You’re going to have to cover for me if I end up out later because of my...hobby.”

“Yeah, I know,” Just because our vigilantism got us in trouble, didn’t mean it was going to stop us. Hell, just the act of solidarity alone was kind of uplifting. “At least I won’t have to worry about breaking anymore rules. I don’t think I’ll be able to do anything for at least another month, anyways.”

“A month, really?”

“Yeah, that’s the recovery period,” I nodded glumly. “Even _after_ calculating my own, er, benefits. It won’t be back to what it used to be for even longer.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself,” Peter said, giving me a disapproving look. “It’s bad enough we go out in just spandex. Besides, the cold’s going to keep the bad guys off the streets, too.”

“I don’t know.” I said, unconvinced.

“Just think of it like a vacation,” Peter suggested, holding up a hand and looking a little precocious. He was trying to annoy me a little. “You get to read in bed, watch TV, pretend to be normal, just for a little while. I can take care of everything else.”  
  
“You sure?”

“Duh. I’ve been doing _way_ longer than you. I’m an old pro,” Peter said, jerking a thumb at himself and smirking.

“Not _that_ long.”

“Every minute counts. Heroes don’t exactly have life insurance.”

“What are you two talking about?” Aunt May called over from the stove, giving us a suspicious look over her shoulder as she stirred a pot of sauce. “Not plotting any more shenanigans, are you?”

“No,” we replied.

“Hm,” she gave us a squinty look before returning to the food. “You two rascals better be careful. I’m not raising no felons in this house.”

Peter cast me a mischievous grin that made me want to punch him. “Of course not, Aunt May. We’d _never_ do that!”

We glanced at each other again and started to snicker. Then we had to cover our mouths to hide our laughter. It’s bad enough I got us in trouble; Aunt May would certainly make it worse if she thought we weren’t appreciating our punishment the way we were supposed to.

But then, well, when did we ever?

 

* * *

 

Christmas night, and the only thing on TV was _It's A Wonderful Life_. A story about a man down on his luck, who wished himself out of existence, only to realize just how much good he had given up in the process. A terrible mistake that left the man wandering, lost and confused and regretting the worst mistake of his life, and wanting to die all over again.

Bruce could relate. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be getting the happy ending.

It was times like these he wished he could drink. But like how alcohol lowered inhibitions, so too did the walls he kept the Other Guy hidden inside. He did not want to spend Christmas destroying another neighborhood in New York City in a drunken fit of green rage.

Unable to hear the line about bell rings and angel wings again, Bruce grabbed the remote and turned off the screen, before getting up and stretching. Bones cracked like dry sticks. Good grief, he was getting old.

Deciding to call it a night after a double shift at the clinic, repairing  broken bones and spraining swollen ligaments, a dozen car crashes in less than five hours...Bruce really needed the sleep. His heart rate had almost hit the the limit a couple times; at least he had his watch to remind him when the Other Guy got too close to the surface, and managed to get breaks before giving those eggnog-saturated frat boy idiots something new to think about.

Bruce turned off the lights in the living room, and had just placed his foot on the staircase when he spotted something sticking out from under the couch. A small piece of white, not part of the floor or carpet.

Mildly intrigued, the man wandered over, bent down, and picked up turned out to be a folded slip of paper. He opened it, stared at the messy handwriting that wasn't his own.

The last physics problem. Gamma rays and time dilation.

She had solved it.

Bruce nearly collapsed on the couch, aghast, staring at her work. It was messy, hard to read, even harder without any light - but her answer was _wrong_. The logic of her math made sense, but it didn't match his own conclusion, the one he made years ago before sticking himself into that death trap of a Gamma radiation machine. Science said it would work. Common sense said it would kill him.

But neither turned out to be right. And now, here he was.

How had she done it? How could she do what took a man with a Ph.D in physics four years to perfect? She had to be wrong. She must've missed something, because he never got this answer.

Yet it would explain why his experiment turned out the way he did. The unknown variable he hadn't foreseen. That element of unpredictability that ruined his life forever. What did she see that he hadn't?

Bruce would never know. It was too late now. The girl was long gone.

He never even asked for her name.


	18. Ego Te Provoco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was kind of short, so I made up for it in this one. Due to the plot, Amy may not be getting a lot action or fight scenes, but I intend to make up for it in other ways. Not necessarily in the romance, I also intend to introduce other characters and re-enter the Rose plot.
> 
> Also, Venom, because he's always a problem.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Ego Te Provoco**

* * *

 

 

It had been two weeks and I was ready to lose my mind.

Two weeks stuck in Aunt May’s house. Two weeks warm, well-fed, and sleeping long hours. Watching re-runs of _Friends,_ chowing on turkey leftovers from Christmas (there was a lot), and learning to Actually, I slept more in those two weeks than I probably had in two months.

And in two weeks I was still no better than before.

I could only take three days indoors before I started taking walks outside. Not running, which at least would’ve been mildly exciting, because I still got a little faint if my heart beat too hard.

While I got caught up on school work and tried to keep my muscles of atrophying, Peter got to have all the fun, sneaking out at night and excelling at not getting caught out past curfew. He got to fight the Master Planner (new player), and destroyed his secret lair on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t even know who Master Planner _was_ , but apparently he has some super-enhanced goons on his side. Which, you know, is a comforting thought.

But they were now safely locked up in Ryker’s now. I mean, I would’ve helped, you know, if I could lift my right arm higher than my chest.

Aunt May noticed I was favoring it and I had to be careful what I did around her lest she started asking too many questions. I couldn’t just show her or lie about what happened, because I didn’t want her to send me to the hospital. Not only did I want the doctors to identify my injury as the knife-wound it was (would that get reported to the police? I hoped not.), but Aunt May couldn’t afford the cost anyways.

That left the remaining problem: school.

I, along with everyone else, returned to Midtown High a week after New Year’s. I knew my arm couldn’t handle everything at school, especially gym, for what was going to be most of January, if not February, too. But I couldn’t just tell the teachers that my arm hurt to get out of arduous tasks. So that’s why I needed a solution. Something no one could argue with.

It was Peter’s idea really.

I had to wait by the bus stop, and he decided to wait with me until it arrived. Sometimes the bus liked to skip us, because the driver is a jerk. He planned to zip off as Spider-Man as soon as we saw it coming down the corner.

I couldn’t complain, really. Since I myself couldn’t fly (Peter offered to take me with him, but that was obviously nixed by Aunt May’s interference), the bus was the only passage to school.

It was as we huddled together by the sign, he handed me something. “Here, put this on. I got a slip, too.”

“What?” I examined the blue fabric. A sling. I threw him a bewildered look. “Where did you get this?”

“It was in the first aid kit. No one’s going to miss it,” Peter said with a shrug, like sneaking around Aunt May’s back was no big deal. I guess it wasn’t — it was practically second nature now. He held up a piece of paper, “And you’ll need this, too.”

I saw the words across the page and gasped, snatching it out of Peter’s hand and tucking it under my coat as if there might be spies around, just waiting to snitch on us to Aunt May. “Is that _forged_? Peter, if we get caught we could be suspended!”

“Hey, that signature is totally legit!” Peter said, throwing up his hands in protest. “I found one of my old doctor’s notes and edited it on the computer. We still have the same family doctor. No one’s gonna know.”

“And what if they _call_ the doctor, huh?”

“They won’t.”

“But how do you _know_?”

“They _won’t_ , Ames, trust me,” Peter said, smiling. I just threw him a dark look, pulling out the slip to glance at it again. “And hey, if they don’t believe you, all you have to do is pass out. I mean, you probably would for real, and that would be bad, but it should do the trick, right?”

“Let’s just say your planning skills leave one wanting,” I said, not entirely pleased with Peter’s idea of a full-proof plan. I especially didn’t want to faint in class and have everyone think I was some baby. Especially after my mean streak, which I intended to continue regardless of my injuries. Hell, if I played this off just right, I could get people to think I got this in a street fight.

I put it on despite my doubts, and luckily no one called me out on it. Peter disappeared shortly after that, and I resigned myself to the fate of stinky, obnoxiously loud bus-rides for the rest of the winter. Ugh.

I did get a few stares, though, getting on the bus but especially when it finally dropped me off at Midtown. I guess it would be quite a shock to see the resident troublemaker with a broken arm or whatever. I could now join the ranks of Astor Sloane and Flash Thompson in the stupidity-induced handicapped league. From what I heard (since Aunt May wouldn’t let me leave the house for more than a few hours at a time, and never more than a few blocks away), Flash had been milking his injury for all its worth, getting his girlfriend Liz Allan to take care of him like she was his mother or something.

I didn’t know how she could put up with him. Maybe it was a cheerleader thing.

Students were still gathered in the courtyard, even though it was freezing out and the cobblestones were slippery. I didn’t spot any of my friends right away, or for that matter, Peter — he was going to be late if he didn’t hurry it up. But I guess he just wanted to nab a few crooks before first period started.

As I was looking around and pretending not to notice the people glancing at me and the fingers pointed at my sling, my foot slipped out from underneath me, a patch of ice hidden beneath a thin layer of snow that caught me off guard.

“Whoa!” I tried to scrabble for balance but my feet had completely abandoned me. I would fallen had not a pair of hands caught me at the last second.

“Hey, careful!” It was Peter to the rescue. He grunted as he braced my fall, remaining firm on the slippery ground. Of course, Peter didn’t have to worry about that, what with his fly-paper hands and feet.

I was mildly surprised by his sudden appearance, but didn’t comment on it as he helped me back up and pull me away, which was embarrassing even without the fact that there were definitely a number of people staring at us now. Me, specifically. I shook him off, trying to regain whatever dignity I had left. “Let go! I’m not helpless!”

“Sorry,” Peter held up his mittened-hands, wincing in apology. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“A fall’s not gonna kill me,” I muttered, throwing a glare at a group of girls who were glancing at me and whispering amongst themselves. Caught, they yelped and scattered. I smirked to myself. Well, at least my reputation wasn’t _completely_ shot. “I’ll be fine. Let’s just get inside before my fingers freeze off.”

“Well, a ‘thank you’ would be ni —” Peter started to say, until a flash of giggling brown hair suddenly tackled him.

It was none other than Liz Allan, grabbing Peter’s hand and hauling him away before he could even finish his sentence. I just stared as he waved me off, turning to the cheerleader with a happy smile on his face. If I had been a comic book character, there would be a million question marks popping up around my head.

Okay, when did _that_ happen?

“What’s that about?” I heard someone say, voicing my thoughts exactly. That’s when I spotted Gwen and Mary-Jane off to the side, watching as the new couple headed inside the building. Gwen was looking particularly displeased. Not surprising, since she obviously still had a crush on him, and they _almost_ got together last semester. But it seemed Liz had beaten her to the punch.

That, and the fact that Peter was an idiot who just couldn’t decide what he wanted.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Gwen replied with an eye roll, and I found myself drawing nearer. Finally, familiar faces. “They’re a couple.”

They saw me coming and waved, and I had just opened my mouth to add my two cents to this lovely conversation when Sally stormed past. “OH NO THEY’RE NOT!”

She shoved me aside so hard I almost fell again, but Sally didn’t even act like she saw me. I threw a dirty look in her direction, brushing myself off where she had touched me. At least she hit my good shoulder.

“You know,” I said, finally recovering and looking back at the other two, who gave me raised-eyebrows. “Peter somehow failed to enlighten me on that new development. I’m sure it just slipped his mind.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Gwen agreed, although the look on her face changed. “Then again, no one’s seen you in weeks. What the heck happened? Did you fall?”

“Oh,” I said, glancing down at my sling. I had to take a second to recall my cover story. “Yeah. I was at the ice rink and landed on my arm wrong. Just popped right out. I’ll be fine in a couple weeks.”

“Is that why you stood-up that guy from the coffee shop?” MJ asked, as though that were the most important part of my predicament. I just made a face. “I mean, I guess it’s not a _bad_ reason. You still should have called him.”

“I don’t have a phone, remember?” I reminded her. Why was this suddenly about _my_ dating life now? We were just talking about Peter’s a second ago. “Besides, I’m not interested. In fact, I’m even less interested.”

“Wait, who’re you talking about?” Gwen asked, switching her head between me and MJ. Her eyes were alight with curiosity, and I realized just how stupid I was to bring this up in front of her. Great. Now everyone was going to know. “Amy met a boy?”

“A _cute_ one,” MJ said with a cheeky smile, making me throw my head back and groan. “Big eyes, nice lips,” she winked at me and I continued to wallow in mortification. “It was practically love at first sight.”

“For _him_ , maybe,” I muttered, stuffing my hands in my pockets. The Universe must be having a great laugh at my expense right now.

“And a way better arrangement than whatever’s going on with Peter,” MJ added, a controversial point that I wasn’t sure I could agree with. Jeez, Peter and Liz or me and Dorian? I mean, he was good for an excuse, but that didn’t even work out in the end. “Hey, I can call him for you!”

“I’m sure Dorian’s already forgotten about me,” I said. The bell rang and we all started heading towards the front doors. “I don’t think he’d want anything to do with me after I blew him off.”

“Well, we won’t know until we find out,” MJ said, taking out her phone and waving it in the air. I saw it and on instinct reached out to snatch it, but MJ dodged out of the way, laughing. “Oh, come on, Amy. You even remembered his name! It’s not so bad! Just one little coffee date. He probably won’t even be mad.”

 _No, but I sure as hell will be_. But there was nothing I could do. I just gave Mary-Jane one last sour look before ducking through the doors, a warm blast of air meeting my face and melting my cheeks. “That’s not really what I’m worried about right now.”

Somehow, the hallways seemed even more crowded than outside, and I wondered why no one was in their homeroom. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Principal Davison’s Start-of-Semester speech,” Gwen said, poking me in the arm. We started heading up the stairs. “You must be really off your game if you forgot about _that_ lovely tradition.”

“I’d rather dislocate my shoulder again.”

“You should take it easy,” Gwen advised, frowning a little. Apparently she knew me better than I thought. “Don’t push yourself. And don’t get into any more fights.”

“It was one time!” I exclaimed, throwing up my free arm. “You’re never going to let me forget, are you?”

Gwen just gave me a sweet smile, patting my arm. “Not on your life.”

I just gave her a disgruntled look before finally deciding to change the subject. Maybe there was something we could talk about that didn’t make me feel so uncomfortable. “If I skip class, will you tell on me,”

“ _Amy_ ,” the other two said in unison, throwing me disapproving looks. As if to dissuade me of any rebellious notions, MJ linked her arm through my injured one, gentle enough so that she didn’t hurt me. “This is going to be a good year, Amy. You just gotta think positive. Come on, let’s head over to auditorium and get the good seats before they’re taken.”

I made a face — as if there were such a thing as good seats in a school auditorium. But I followed Mary-Jane and Gwen anyways, going up a couple flights of stairs (that startlingly had me worn out at the end), which they were kind enough to slow down for me. I was frustrated at myself for looking so weak, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Maybe Gwen was right. Maybe I _should_ take it easy.

...Nah.

But before we could reach the auditorium, Gwen spotted someone at the top of the stairs and squealed so loud I nearly toppled down the flight of stairs we just climbed. Luckily, MJ was there to support me, while Gwen scrambled up and tackled who I thought was a complete stranger.

When we reached the landing, though, I realized I actually recognized him.

“Harry, you’re back!” Gwen exclaimed, still clinging to him from behind.

It was Harry Osborn in the flesh, red hair and gray eyes just like his wacko father, having returned to Midtown High. He laughed, turning his head to grin at Gwen, who seemed to be strangely clingy to him. “Hey, Gwen! Man, I’ve missed you — I mean, all of you.”

Then I realized Peter and Liz were standing right there, and figured out what Gwen was doing pretty quick. Peter just smiled and motion to the girl next to him, “Harry, you remember Liz? We’re— we’re, um...”

Although he couldn’t get the words out, Peter’s meaning was quite clear. Harry took it all in stride. “So I gather. Congrats!”

Gwen didn’t look too pleased with the matter, but it was MJ who intervened, letting me go to usher the girl away, towards the auditorium doors, with Peter and Liz behind them. That’s when Harry turned around and noticed me, jumping a little as though he were surprised. I guess I had been pretty quiet. Or maybe it was the sling. I don’t know, I was pretty out of it lately.

“Hey, Amy,” Harry threw me a wide grin, looking as fresh as the snow outside. I had to admit, I was still a little taken aback. It was such a change from when I last saw him in October — gaunt and broken and addicted to Globulin Green. “How are you feeling? I heard about what happened. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Hey to you, too,” I said, wondering just who the heck told him. Was it Peter? It was probably Peter. “I’m fine. You look good.”

“I wish I could say the same for you.” Harry said, giving a sympathetic wince in reference to my arm.

“You should see the other guy,” I said, smiling and hoping that he wouldn’t keep asking questions about it. Pretty much everyone had asked me that, which varying expressions of shock to smugness (in Astor’s case). “It’s all right. Just a broken shoulder. I’ll be copacetic by February.”

“Is it true you also broke Astor’s arm?” Harry asked, tilting his head and looking more amused than weirded out.

“Uh, ah-ha,” I chuckled nervously. So he heard about _that_ , too. “Yeah. I’m sure she’s ecstatic that karma came back to bite me in the —”

I was cut off by the shrill call of the bell, and everyone made a rush for the auditorium. The sound was jarring and made me wince, nearly disorienting, and when I looked around again, I saw the Green Goblin, standing in the hall way and giving me a nasty grin.

“You coming, Amy?” He asked in that gravelly, cackling voice.

I jumped at the sight, wondering how the hell the Green Goblin was back — how he was in school, _how he knew my name_ — when I blinked and the image was replace by Harry, waving me to follow. “You don’t want to miss Principal’s Davison’s riveting speech, do you?”

“Uh, right, yeah,” I said, shaking my head and trying to get the weird shivers out of my body. _What the hell was that_? I didn’t even know what I saw, or what my brain had wanted me to see. Taking a deep breath, I put a smile back on my face and followed him. “I’m sure it’ll be just as great as last time.”

Maybe I took too much pain medication this morning.

Or maybe it was something else.

 

* * *

           

It was difficult to focus in class. Although I was glad to finally have something to do, I realized that I still wasn’t ready to re-enter normal society — I was far too restless, and being caught in a sling was not helping. I couldn’t even use Gym to get rid of excess energy.

That wasn’t the only thing, though. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget the fact that Goliath was actually Franklin Koppel, back from the dead and apparently brain-washed and turned into a crazy Terminator cyborg. I didn’t care about the Key anymore — I wanted to know who created him, who thought that this was somehow a good idea. And if there were more like him.

My first instinct was that this was Kane’s doing. I mean, who else besides her would be capable of such a thing? She created Dr. Grace’s new form, this would hardly be a challenge. But did that mean she wanted to protect the Key, or did she sell Goliath who needed some freaky guardian?

Of course, any investigating I made in the past few weeks led to absolutely nothing. It was one thing to be rendered physically useless, it was another to feel stupid on top of it all. God, why couldn’t I get _anything_ done?

And if I wasn’t thinking about Koppel, I was wondering about the Doc. Although I had tried over and over to convince myself that I didn’t care, that I hated him, that he tricked me, I still couldn’t help but feel sad. Sad for what? I wasn’t sure. I was resentful, sure. But maybe that was my fault. I expected too much. I asked for something the Doc couldn’t give, and got angry when he rebuked me.

I still couldn’t reconcile that. Why would he tell me all that stuff back in November if it wasn’t even true? Was it just a quick fix, something to get myself back in gear to fight off Venom? After all, it was Smoke’s idea, and apparently Doc owed him a favor. Maybe he was just doing his best.

It didn’t help with the fact that I was still having trouble controlling my emotions. Just last night I had a nightmare and nearly broke the window (thankfully I missed). The loud noises on the bus made my hands shake. I felt like I was on a slow descent into chaos, spiraling out of control. And I didn’t know how to stop it.

Even then, despite the anger and hurt and all the other emotional turmoil, I still felt as though the Doc could help me. There was something I missed about being in his house.

It took me nearly a week after returning to Aunt May’s to figure it out. Safety. I felt safe there. I wasn’t afraid to talk to the Doc, at least it was fun to annoy him, and he didn’t treat me like a little kid. Well, okay, it was pretty obvious he thought I was stupid, but he didn’t try to ‘fix’ me in that way that school counselors did; he wasn’t condescending like they were, he never told me I was wrong or misguided for acting the way I did. I wasn’t a lost cause waiting to be saved by just the right person, a child to be pitied and coddled. Ugh.

He respected me, or at least I thought he did. I knew what _disrespect_ was, and what I experienced there was far better than anything like that.

I had trusted a complete stranger with my well-being, and wasn’t disappointed. It was such an amazing feeling, this optimism, this happiness in learning that there was still good in humans that I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

I was broken out my reverie by Peter poking my arm. “Hey, Amy. Amy!”

“Mm, what?” I asked him, frowning. We were in Physics II together. So far the class was straightforward; all the material I read so far was familiar and anything new I understood with no trouble. The calculations I made were so far correct (minus a few double-checking’s revealing some rookie multiplication mistakes) and I had faith that I could pass the test from last semester’s class.

Peter ducked his head, whispering, “I have to talk to you about something,”

He was quiet enough not to be overheard. Immediately realizing it must be important, I leaned in as he said, “I saw something today, on the way to school. I just...I don’t know if it’s real or...”

“Or what? What happened?” I frowned at him. Peter looked pretty shaken, now that I thought about it. Whatever he saw must’ve been bad.

“It’s just...” Peter shook his head, scratching his cheek and staring at his worksheet, seemingly at a loss for words. “I saw _Eddie_. On a roof. I was swinging over to school and he was just... _there_. I didn’t even know what I saw until I looked around again. But he was gone.”

Eddie Brock. My eyes went wide and my jaw dropped, but I couldn’t think of what to say. Just the name sent a cold stab of pain through my gut. The memories alone were painful to recall. “Are you...are you sure?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know,” Peter just shrugged, giving me a helpless look. “But what if he’s back, Amy? What if he — what if he wants revenge?”

I just blinked, shaking my head. I refused to overreact, to let my fear get the better of me. Logic was on my side this time. “Well, even if he did, he wouldn’t get it. He doesn’t have the symbiote anymore. We got rid of it, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Peter nodded, starting to look a little relieved. We had buried the symbiote, or what was left of it, inside a bag within some still-wet concrete somewhere in Chinatown. There was no way Eddie knew where it was, and no one was going to be finding it on accident. “I guess maybe I was just seeing things.”

Apparently, we were having a bad day together. I decided to add, “I saw weird stuff too, today. With Harry. For a second, I saw...Well, I thought I saw the Green Goblin. It totally freaked me out.”

“But Harry isn’t the Green Goblin,” Peter said, his turn to give me a weird look. “At least, not anymore. He’s clean now.”

“Well, duh,” I rolled my eyes, throwing up a hand. “I know that. I’m just saying. Maybe we’re both seeing things today.”

“You think we’re just overreacting?” Peter asked me, raising his eyebrows in concern. “I just feel like I can’t relax sometimes. Like everyone’s out to get me.”

“It’s called hyper-vigilance,” I said, recalling a lesson from an old Psych class. “I guess we’re too used to fighting, to being on our guard. Maybe we just forgot how to be normal.”

“Well, being normal would sure be nice right now,” Peter admitted, scribbling an answer onto his sheet. Then he looked back up and smiled at me. “Hey, are you going to Flash’s party?”

“Uh,” I stared at Peter, wondering if he was serious. “No?”

“Oh, come on! It won’t be so bad!”

 _Why does everyone keep saying that_? I threw my gaze to the ceiling, wondering why the Universe wanted my life to suck so badly. “You know, that sounds really tempting, Peter, but I really don’t want to celebrate the birthday of someone that stuffed _both_ of us into lockers.”

“But he’s in crutches now! And I got an invitation.” Peter said, looking mighty smug about it. “I’m taking Liz. He can’t say she can’t come now.”

Why the hell would Flash invite Peter? I mean, I’d understand if Flash wanted to the chance to humiliate him in front of his friends, but Flash wasn’t really in the position to do so now that he’s got a broken leg. I sure as hell didn’t get an invitation, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have gone.

Well, okay, I _might’ve_. But only to see what a party would actually be like. I’d just check to make sure I still had a good reason to hate them.

And yet, I saw the opportunity to turn this conversation around. I leaned against the table, smirking a little. “Right, about _Liz_. I think you forgot to mention you’re little affair while I was home.”

Peter flushed and didn’t meet my eyes, and his hand wandered to the back of his head, scratching in nervousness. “W-what? It’s not an _affair_ — everyone just apparently thinks we’ve lost our minds. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” The fact that Peter was a nerd and Liz was a cheerleader wasn’t what I was really worried about. Screw the norms, they could date whoever they wanted. I just wanted to know why _Liz_ and not _Gwen_. “I thought you and Gwen had something nice going on. What happened to that?”

“I dunno.”

 _That_ was the lamest answer ever. I just shook my head, disappointed. “You know, for a smart guy, you can be really stupid sometimes.”

“I’m not the one who almost got myself killed,” Peter shot back.

I glowered at him, my mouth clamping shut. Dammit. I was never going to win another argument so long as Peter had that against me. The only chance I had of ever having the upper hand was if he’d do something even stupider.

Unfortunately, that was a high bar to reach. Oh, well. It wasn’t like I _wanted_ Peter to get hurt. Of course not. I just wished he’d wise up already.

 

* * *

 

 

“MJ, I’m not going to that stupid party!”

Mary-Jane practically had to shove me through that door, planting both hands between my shoulder blades and putting as much weight into my superhuman frame as possible. She said through gritted teeth, “I got two invites thanks to Flash, and there is no way you’re making me waste them! I invited Dorian, and I swear to God if you don’t talk to him for _at least_ five minutes I will personally tell Aunt May how you skipped English class.”

I gasped, throwing her a horrified look. “ _You wouldn’t_.”

She gave me a vicious grin. “Oh, you better believe it, sister. My mom and your aunt are tighter than knot — she’ll believe anything I say.”

“You are so evil.”

“Go talk to him,” MJ ordered, swiping a finger across her lips. “And I won’t say a thing.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” I finally relented, letting go of the doorframe and tripping inside. At least it was warm inside, and surprisingly a lot of people here I knew, and most of them weren’t jerks.

Sally might be an issue, but at least Astor wasn’t here.

I didn’t see Dorian at first, so I took the extra time to mentally prepare myself. I was only doing this for MJ’s benefit and because I really had nothing better to do. With all this extra free time, I had finished my homework from now till the end of the next week, and I was just kind of bored.

Not bored enough to go to parties, but still.

As MJ looked around to find him, I was intercepted by Peter, who had already arrived earlier. He gave me a curious look. “Hey, you showed up after all! I didn’t think you would.”

“It’s not by choice,” I muttered, stuffing my hands in my pockets. I didn’t really know how to act in a social environment like this. There was music, but not the kind you dance to. There was food, but too many gathered at the tables. And there were people, but none I wanted to talk to. “MJ made me.”

“Ah,” Peter nodded his head in clear understanding of the situation. “That explains everything.”

Peter had been in a sour mood ever since last night, when the Sandman got away with some priceless Greek vase from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Apparently when you feed him sand, Marko Flint got bigger and stronger. Who woulda thunk.

Oh, yeah, and Peter spotted Eddie Brock again, right before the Museum break-in. This time, we weren’t so sure it was just an illusion. Did Eddie have anything to do with the heist?

It was unlikely, but it was awfully convenient how he always turned up at the exact moment Spider-Man needed to be somewhere else.

Still, Peter seemed determined not to let the random appearances get to him, and so far hadn’t brought it up to me again. If he was trying to have a good time at Flash’s party, then so was I.

There was a minor fight when Flash demanded why Peter and I showed up to a party he didn’t want us at (wow, can’t believe we all agreed on something) — only to learn that it was his _mom_ who was in charge of sending invitations. She had been under the assumption Peter and Flash were still friends from nursery school.

I knew parents could be blind sometimes, but _that_ was mindboggling. Flash had been pushing Peter around since the sixth grade.

It made for a good laugh, though, and no one got kicked out. Flash just pouted for a little bit, at least until Sally and Rand cheered him up a bit.

I was amused for a bit, and I got to talk to Harry and Gwen a bit more since yesterday. Harry got a new, bright green convertible as a welcome-home gift (!) from his mother, and he and Gwen were currently on a date-date. How that was different from a regular date, I didn’t know; I wasn’t good at this relationship stuff. While they avoided the question of whether or not they were official, I figured I’d just make it easier on myself and assume it was so until proven otherwise.

Gwen and I were talking about her dad, Captain Stacy, teaching the new Criminology class at Midtown — nearly everyone in our grade was taking it, including myself — when we were interrupted by someone behind me.

“It’s, uh, it’s Amelia, right?”

Gwen paused, her gaze drawing away from me, a small smile pulling at her lips. I glanced over my shoulder, surprised to see Dorian standing there. He was wearing the same hat from the day I met him, covering nearly all his hair except for a few tufts sticking out over his brow. Under the lighting, it looked almost white. Dorian shifted nervously on his feet, a cup of punch in one hand like he didn’t know what to do with it. He met my eyes with trepidation, as though I might snap at any moment.

I gave him a quick once-over before saying, “People just call me Amy.”

“Oh, okay.” Dorian flushed a little, his eyes flicking away and down.

I guess I could’ve been friendlier, but that was the only way I could think of saying that. Apparently, it was sub-par, because I felt Gwen’s elbow jabbing into my ribcage, making me wince a little. So I added, with a sigh, “Sorry about...last time. As you can see,” I turned around so I face him fully, wiggling my arm inside the sling. “I had an accident.”

Dorian’s shyness evaporated as he took in the sight. You could even spot the bandages poking out from beneath my shirt. “What happened — I mean, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just slipped on some ice,” I said with a shrug, throwing off his sudden concern. He didn’t know me. Was it an act? I remembered the words Smoke had told me — PUA. But if Dorian was a pick-up artist, he was either really bad or I was even more naive than I have myself credit for. “I was in the hospital for a few days, so I missed the parade. I also _still_ don’t have a phone, so I couldn’t have called you even if I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t want to,” Dorian surmised, the corners of his eyes pinching a little.

I tilted my head, vaguely aware of Gwen slipping away behind me so that we could have this conversation alone. Maybe she thought she was doing me a favor, but I wanted to be anywhere else right now. Even fighting Goliath again. “...No. Like I said before, I’m not interested in making new friends.”

“Then why are you at this party?” Dorian asked, motioning with his cup to the room at large. There was a critical tone in his voice, one that had me slightly impressed — I underestimated him; Dorian was more daring than I thought, not as timid as I thought.

“Why do you think? MJ made me.” I told him. Critical or not, I didn’t appreciate the fact that he thought I was trying to pull one over on him. This was something I’d lie or beat around the bush about. “I know she invited you here. What did she tell you?”

“I dunno. That I should give you a second chance.”

“ _You_ should give _me_ a second chance?” the idea was laughable, and laugh I did. Dorian fixed me with a frown, and I just scoffed and said, “Please. She black-mailed me, and I just wanted her to stop bugging me about it.”

“So you’re just acting out of the kindness of your heart, then?” sarcasm practically dripped from his voice. “Am I a pity case?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” I snapped back. “I honestly thought you hated me after the way I blew you off. Which maybe you do, I don’t know, I’m not exactly _trying_ to get you to like me. If MJ knew you didn’t, she’d probably drop the whole thing. I’m just here because I’m bored, man. I don’t even _like_ parties.”

Dorian had just taken a sip from his cup. He snorted into it, saying, “Heh, neither do I. I shouldn’t even be here, really — I go to Brooklyn Heights, and they hate you guys after ruining our football championship streak.” He cast a thumb over his shoulder, towards Flash. “You wouldn’t believe how happy they were when they found out _the_ Flash Thompson broke his leg and might never play football again.”

“Eh, I’m sure he’ll be all right by next season,” I said, shrugging my shoulders and making a face. I had never heard of Brooklyn Heights before, although that was probably because I didn’t give two fiddlesticks about high school sports. “You’re probably gonna lose again.”

Dorian just laughed, shaking his head. “Man, you don’t care _at all_ , do you?”

“Are you kidding? Flash used to bully me. I’m just as ecstatic as you are that karma finally caught up with him.”

“Hey, I never said _I_ cared. I don’t watch football.”

“Well, neither do I.” I said. “But you could probably already guess that.”

“So, do you live nearby, then?”

“Just around the corner,” I replied. I wasn’t joking either — I could walk home in less than a minute if I wanted to, Flash and Peter lived that close to each other. It was a marvel how much hate could exist so near each other, yet never touch except within a school half a mile away.

“So you _could_ make friends, but you just don’t want to.” Dorian remarked, looking quizzical. It was kind of cute, I suppose — he had a way of wrinkling his nose when he asked a question and for some reason I couldn’t help but notice it every time. What the hell was wrong with me?

“I think I’ve said that, yeah.” I said, not letting that weird distraction both me. “I’m not much of a people person.”

“You could always get better,”

I exhaled through my nose in frustration, glancing over at the door and mildly considering just walking out of here. The guy just didn’t get it, did he? “That’s not what I meant. I’m not interested in making friends because I don’t have the energy to maintain an extensive connection of friends. I’m just...too busy.”

“But not busy enough to come to a party, though, right?” Dorian raised an eyebrow, and I nearly cursed out loud. He had a point, and I wasn’t sure how to refute it now, since my usual excuse was in the same state as my shoulder. Useless. “I’m not asking you to add a hundred new friends to your Facebook account, Amy. It’s just having a decent conversation between two like-minded people, like the one we’re having right now. Would you have more friends if you had the time?”

“Yeah, sure,” although they probably wouldn’t be in Midtown High. There were very few people I liked there, and 1/4th of them were related to me. “I could be the most popular girl in school if I tried. I’d have plenty of friends.”

“What about me, then?”

I just rolled my eyes. “I don’t know, _maybe_. But you’re not making a very convincing argument.”

“You seem to think I want something.” Dorian surmised, an accurate guess considering I hadn’t actually said it out loud.

“I don’t know!” I just shrugged my shoulders helplessly. I had no idea _why_ Dorian wanted to be my friend, especially when I explicitly expressed my disinterest, as lame as my reasoning was. This situation was just so alien to me that I didn’t know what to make of it. “There are plenty of other girls out there that would probably _love_ talking to you, would be more than glad to be your friend, or _more_ than a friend. You can probably find some in this party! Why are you even wasting your time with me? It just doesn’t make sense. There has to be something else.”

Dorian looked just as perplexed as I felt. “Because you’re interesting in ways they aren’t? Is that so hard to imagine? I mean, you seem like the kind of person who’s got a lot of secrets to tell.”

“Well, you’re not gonna hear them.” I retorted.

“So you’re not denying it, then.”

“Not denying what?”

He smiled. “You _do_ have secrets.”

I glared back, wanting to punch that smug little face of his. Feeling particularly sarcastic, I snorted. “Yeah, it keeps me up at nights. I’m a terrible person that way.”

But my attempt to scare him off didn’t work. Dorian just kept smiling, pointing a finger at me. “See, you say that, but I don’t believe you. I bet you care more than you want people to know.”

“Really, you think that?” I asked, tilting my head in challenge and planting my good hand on my hip. “Let’s say, hypothetically, you’re right, and I do care, because I hate myself for some reason. Why the hell would I keep pretending?”

“Because even though you won’t admit it, you’re starting to like me,”

It was such a bold statement that it made me laugh. “Oh, I like you? And how are you going to prove that?”

“Well, I can ask you out on a real date,” Dorian said just as quickly, smiling as though he was enjoying this. Maybe he was. And maybe I was, too. “Somewhere not a party, something you might actually like. You can pick, and if it goes well, then we’ll know I’m right.”

“There is no way.”

“You wanna bet?”

Not for one second did I take a step back to reconsider what I was about to do, so caught up in the moment was I. All cocky, I said, “Sure. Next Friday, seven o’ clock, movies at the _Big Screen_. New movie, that one with George Clooney that just came out. But you’re not gonna win.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good chance.”

“The odds are stacked _way_ against you,”

But Dorian just shrugged, as if the challenge didn’t bother him in the least. “How about we wait and see?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He said. “I’ll see you Friday. Don’t be late.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Good.” A big grin formed on Dorian’s face, and it wasn’t until he waved good-bye and disappeared out the door did I realize my mistake.

I smacked a hand to my forehead, groaning at the ceiling. What an idiot! I had just agreed to go on a date with him! I totally fell for the pretense of the bet. And now there was no backing out, not so long as MJ kept her nose in my business. I had no choice but to follow through.

Oh, man, I better not lose.


	19. Festina Lente

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually got quite a bit of the next few chapters written, which is why I've been updating so frequently. I hope it lasts. I really want to finish this darn fic before the summer ends.
> 
> We're finally reintroduced to some familiar characters, which you might recognize from a certain Marvel TV series, as well as the start of a new arc. Yay!
> 
> And thank you to Heart 'n' Soul 2, I really appreciated your review! I have to admit, I wasn't expecting anyone to say that, and it makes me so happy. I would also like to thank everyone else for their reviews and time spent reading this stupid-long fic, because it really makes my day when you take the time to write a personal response. It's the best thing ever! I wish I could hug you!
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Festina Lente**

* * *

 

 

I had to come up with a good excuse to be out past curfew for Aunt May. Turned out, all I had to do was tell her the truth; Aunt May actually laughed and said it was all right, just so long as he got his number. Which I had, thanks to the infuriating efforts of MJ.

I almost wished she said no. I _wanted_ Aunt May to keep me in. Because then I’d have an even better reason to not go besides my own reluctance.

I mean, Dorian didn’t deserve that, but maybe I was a terrible person, because I didn’t particularly care. Well, it didn’t matter now, because that next Friday, at seven o’ clock, I found myself standing in front the _Big Screen_ , a small cinema near the Village, dressed in my favorite jeans and Mom’s favorite scarf. I fingered the colored wool, laced with silver thread. I had forgotten I even had still had this, and it was startling to still smell Mom’s perfume on it. It sparked a dozen old memories, of Mom taking me out shopping (even if we couldn’t afford it), or to go skate at the Rockefeller Plaza or see Lady Liberty.

It was distracting, to say the least. I felt my eyes burn a little, just thinking about it. I really did not want to start this whole date off teary-eyed and weepy.

_Come on, get a hold of yourself, girl. You’ve made an image for yourself, stick with it!_

Luckily I managed to control myself and clamped down on the tears a few seconds before I spotted Dorian. He weaved through the crowd of recent movie-goers having just finished their film.

“Hey, Amy!” He found me quite easily, standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, and a big grin pulled on his face. I gave a little wave in return.

“I gotta be honest,” Dorian came up to me, tripping over someone’s heel before regaining his balance and stopping in front of me, looking a little bashful. “I seriously thought you were gonna ditch me again.”

“I tossed a coin, chose heads, and lost,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up.

“ _No_ ,” I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile. It had been a lie, but it felt a lot better to say than the truth: that Mary Jane had been bugging me ever since she heard the news, and even got Peter in on the act. I couldn’t stay home and bear the relentless teasing without punching him, or else Aunt May would ground me. Again. “I’m just teasing you. Do you want to head in now or get some popcorn? I’ve already got the tickets.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a real movie experience without popcorn,” he remarked.

“Good choice,” I said and we started heading towards the concessions stand.

He was quiet while we waited in line; I wasn’t exactly trying to make conversation either, but I suppose I was at a loss of what to talk about. I didn’t really know any ice-breakers, at least none that were lame. And I had no intention to embarrass myself in front of him.

Thankfully, Dorian broke the silence first, just as it came to our turn at the register. “I just wanted you to know, I’m not really like that. The way I was at the party, I mean. I’m not really, erm, assertive. I guess I was just angry about the way you treated me.”

“Oh,” I said, brilliantly. Then I wanted to kick myself for not coming up with a better response. So I quickly added, “I kind of figured. And, um, I’m sorry about that. The past few weeks have been kind of rough on me.”

“You mean, besides the shoulder?” Dorian asked as he handed the cashier lady a dollar bill.

“Um, yeah.”

“Like what?”

I winced internally, wishing I hadn’t brought it up now. Great, how was I going to put this in a way that satisfied his curiosity and didn’t incriminate me at the same time? “Family trouble. My mom’s been, uh, sick recently. I had to miss school on top of everything else, to help take care of her.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” Dorian said, throwing me a sympathetic look that made me half-smile in response. “I hope she gets better.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“So!” Dorian said, a brighter tone in his voice, as if to indicate a change in topic. I breathed out a sigh of relief; anything besides my personal life, please. “What’s Midtown like? I heard you guys gave great scholarships, especially in the sciences.”

“Uh, yeah,” I shook my head, getting myself to forget the other topic and instead think about school (ugh). “It’s, uh, pretty popular for kids in that field. It’s also got a good theatre program.”

“You auditioning?”

I snorted. “Me? Talking in front of a giant crowd? No thank you. And their doing _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.”

“Well, that can’t be so bad. That’s one of Shakespeare’s comedies, right?” Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow as he took the bucket of popcorn from the cashier lady. It was a large one, which I appreciated; I had been eating a lot recently, and any more calories were put to great use.

“Yeah, but anything written by Shakespeare is automatically a tragedy to my mind, so not gonna happen,” I replied, and was pleased to get a laugh out of him. See? I could be funny and charming when I wanted to be (who was I trying to convince, myself?). “Me and the Bard don’t have a great relationship, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Aw. He’s probably rolling in his grave, hearing you say that,” Dorian made a silly pouty face, and he threw a kernel at my head.

I swatted it out of the air before it could touch me, reacting purely on instinct. I glared at the kernel as though it had personally offended me, while Dorian laughed. “Wow, nice reflexes.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, stuffing my hands into my pockets again, feeling frustrated with myself. Even though most of my powers were still out of commission, I couldn’t deny my own instincts, particularly the self-defensive ones. Did I almost give myself away? “I’m sure Shakespeare is more worried about all the bad adaptations of his plays rather than little ol’ me, who doesn’t even bother to read them.”

“There _are_ worse crimes to commit,” Dorian agreed with a sage nod. Although he was taller than me, Dorian was extremely skinny, and for some reason I felt like I had to be careful around him, lest I snap him in half (despite the fact that I, myself, was in no condition to do that even on accident).

He went on to say, “You seem more like the kind of person who’d be in a fight club, instead.”

I threw him a strange look as we headed into the theater hall. “What do you mean?”

“You know, a fight club? Where you beat people up?” Dorian raised his fists and pretended to box with them as if to demonstrate his point. Then he shrugged, “MJ told me you get into fights at school. Now that I’ve finally met you, I’m not surprised.”

“It was one time!” I groaned, throwing out my arms. “I break one person’s arm and suddenly I’m the villain!”

“I never said you were!” Dorian brought up his hands in surrender, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just telling you what MJ told me. Clearly, she likes to exaggerate. But my first impression of you turned out to be right: you’re definitely one of the toughest people I’ve met.”

“Oh,” I said, dropping my arms, feeling myself deflate. Well, get myself all worked up for nothing. “Uh, thanks, I guess. You’re not so bad yourself.”

Dorian grinned at the compliment. “Awesome. Come on, the movie’s just about to start.”

The date went pretty well, considering how hard I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t, so I’d win. After the movie was over, Dorian and I headed to the Silver Spoon, which was only a few blocks away. During the walk, we talked about what we thought of the movie — and I found myself holding my half of the conversation pretty well.

I hadn’t talked this much in a while. It was actually kind of refreshing, and I found myself smiling during the walk, during the meal. I actually felt a little sad when (admittedly late) dinner had to end.

We were just walking out when Dorian, still holding the door open, asked, “So, what’d you think? Am I worthy of another date?”

The comment made me laugh — not for the first time tonight. Still, the question made me nervous, and when I didn’t answer right away, Dorian just ducked his head, scratching his cheek as he said, “You know, that whole bet thing, it was just a joke. You don’t have to see me again if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, it’s was great, I just...” I started to say, turning to smile at him, but my voice died when my gaze fell on something behind him. Across the street, in the cone of light from a street lamp, stood someone I never thought I’d see again.

Eddie Brock.

Watching me. Smiling.

My mind went blank, and I jerked back when a hand waved in front of my eyes. I shook my head, distracted, while Dorian asked, “Amy? Earth to Amy, you there?”

“I, uh,” I blinked, trying to remember what was going on. A sudden panic filled my chest and I spun to look at Eddie again.

Only he was gone.

“What’s the matter?” Dorian asked, and I focused back on him again, feeling strangely hollow. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

My mouth hung open for a few speechless seconds. Still staring at the spot where Eddie once stood, I started to back away, my tongue completely dry. “I think I just did.”

 

* * *

 

_In, out. In, out. In, out._

I counted my breaths as I pumped my legs, my footsteps skipping across the pavement. I ducked between shoppers with their bags and businessmen with their briefcases and kids on their bikes. I was dressed lightly for the weather, in order to go faster and stay cool. The bitter wind was refreshing rather than crippling, although my fingers were starting to feel a little numb.

I finally had the energy to return to regular exercising, although anything criminal-related was still off-limits. I was still trying to make another costume, which was extremely costly and time-consuming. I hoped I’d have something finished by the time my shoulder was flight-ready again.

But that really wasn’t what I was concerned about — not my health, not my powers, not Doc or Smoke or any various bad guys that have made their resurgence in the past few weeks — rather, I couldn’t get Eddie out of my head.

After seeing him last Friday night, I was in a constant state of paranoia. I thought Peter might’ve just been seeing things when he mentioned it to me last week, but it was clear that something was going on. Was it really Eddie? Was he back? Where had he even been all this time? I knew he had gotten away after we took care of the symbiote, but apparently he had been keeping his head low, because this was the first time I’d seen him in months.

What did he want? Revenge? It was the only possible thing I could think of; because, really, what else would he want? Peter and I ruined his life, on purpose I might add. How he failed to understand how his actions were detrimental, that revenge was wrong, I didn’t know. What would he do this time? Would he attack Aunt May again? She was getting better after her heart attack, but I imagine a run-in with him or Venom would definitely set her back, if he didn’t outright kill her. I didn’t think Eddie would go that far — or at least I _hoped_ — but it was still a threat to consider.

Fortunately, it seemed as though he hadn’t recovered the symbiote yet. Was he still powerless, or would Eddie Brock find some other way to become strong again?

I was so caught up in these thoughts that led back into themselves in endless circles that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. One second I was racing over a crosswalk (jogging was too slow for me) in Hell’s Kitchen, and the next second there’s a man right in front of me, and I was going too fast to stop.

“Watch out!”

My shoulder hit his and we both went crashing into the sidewalk. I gasped in pain as terrible jolt shot up my arm and across my back — of _course_ it had to be my bad shoulder!

I clutched my right arm, my chest heaving as I tried to pick myself up, trying to move through the pain. Instead I just sat on the tarmac, trying to catch my breath and waiting for the worst of the pain to subside. Okay, that was a little much.

I had no way to prevent it from happening. My radar had been going on and off for days. I had been so excited when it returned a little over a week ago, only to find that it was weak and fuzzy for just a few hours before going out again. Since then, I had begun to ignore it and act without it, until the radar came back for good.

Of course, that made sensing things I couldn’t see very hard to do. And thus, I bulldoze into innocent people and batter them with my too-strong body.

I didn’t even remember the other person until I opened my eyes again and saw him, on his hands and knees, scanning the sidewalk with his hands. A pair of round sunglasses was nearby, red lenses cracked, and a white cane had rolled up against the wall of the nearest building. For some reason, the man couldn’t seem to find them, although they were right there. I stared at him for a second, wondering why it was taking him so long to find his things, why he couldn’t spot the things that should’ve been easy to spot.

Then all the pieces clicked together and I realized with horror of what I’ve done.

The man’s eyes were blank and unfocused as he continued his search, squinting slightly as though he might’ve been hurt. I didn’t even realize he was speaking to me until his hand found the toe of my sneaker. The touch jolted me back to the present.

“Are you all right?” His face canted upwards in the direction of my body. “You sound hurt.”

“...w-what?” I blinked, barely even registering his words before shaking my head and finally reacting to the situation. “Oh — oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you! Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Relax, I’m fine,” the blind man actually smiled, while I just stared and wondered how he wasn’t cursing my head off like a normal New Yorker would. “Surprisingly, I’m not as helpless as I look —”

“Whoa, dude, what happened?” another man burst in on the scene, wearing a suit like the blind man, but bit rounder in the gut. He bent down, taking the blind man by the elbow and helping him up. “Did you fall? Man, you gotta be more careful —”

The blind man let out a beleaguered sigh. “I’m fine, Foggy. Just a minor collision, no one got hurt.”

“What? Who?” the newcomer, Foggy, turned his gaze on me, still on the ground. He scowled, pointing a finger at me and demanding, “What the heck’s wrong with you? Don’t you know a blind man when you see one? Why you gotta go knocking ‘em over like bowling pins —”

 _There’s_ the reaction I was expecting. I scrambled to my feet, wincing as a new tremor of pain coursed through my shoulder. I tried to apologize, stumbling over my words, and trying to be heard through Foggy’s rant, but it was the blind man who held up his hand, placing it on the hand holding him up. He said, “Hey, calm down! It was just an accident! She’s already apologized.”

“Well, I want it in _writing_ ,” Foggy declared, as I grabbed the fallen cane and sunglasses. I felt bad that it was my fault they were cracked — not that he would notice. “Or I’m gonna call for a class-action lawsuit and...”

Then I wanted to hit myself for thinking that. Good lord, what was wrong with me?

Unsure how to approach a blind man and not wanting to touch him because it was kind of weird to touch a complete stranger. Still, I rested the tips of my fingers on his upper arm. “Here, your things,”

“Oh, thank you,” he reached out, using my arm as a guide to find the items. He slid the glasses on and it seemed almost a transformation as he seemed to fall back into a comfortable form. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Your glasses are cracked,” I said, completely deaf to the last question. I was practically wringing my hands and I didn’t know what to do with myself to make this all better. I mean, apparently everything was all right, but I still felt like I had to make it up to him. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he repeated, starting to sound tired of saying that so many times. He smiled wryly, “It’s not like I need them to see, anyways,”

I let out a surprised blurt of laughter, before cutting myself off in mortification. Was it okay to laugh at blind jokes when it was a blind man making them?

“Matt, she laughed!” Foggy exclaimed, pointing another accusatory finger at her and turning to his friend, who just seemed amused by his friend’s exaggerated outrage. “We could sue her for that!”

“He’s just joking,” the blind man, Matt, said with a gesture to his friend. “He likes to think I can’t defend myself outside of a courthouse.”

“Because you can’t see crap!” Foggy reminded him, then to me, he added, “I’m allowed to say that, as one of the perks to being best friends with a blind guy.”

His behavior towards me seemed to have finally toned down now; he fell back on his heels, giving me an easy smile. Well, a smirk, really. I guess he was really proud of that privilege.

I could only nod dumbly. The two were clearly all right and weren’t angry at me (although I had the strange feeling I had seen this Matt character before, but I couldn’t recall where).

“Are you from around here?” Matt asked, and I was about to open my mouth to answer when I saw something over his shoulder.

On the other side of the street, standing at the corner of the next block, stood one lone figure. Black jacket, blond hair, a knowing smirk.

A chill went down my back. My breath came out in a whisper. “Eddie.”

“What?” Foggy frowned at me, then glanced behind him to see what I was looking at. “What’re you looking at?”

But a dump truck had just blown by, and by the time it passed, Eddie was gone. Vanished into the wind.

Matt frowned, following the turn of Foggy’s body in the direction of the street corner. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Foggy replied, obviously not seeing what I had, what had left the look of horror on my face. Not that they would know who Eddie was even if they had seen him.

“Is something wrong —?” He turned back around to face me, only to find that I, too, had disappeared. Foggy blinked, taken aback, glancing around. “Wait, where’d she go?”

“She’s gone?” Matt frowned, gripping his stick in both hands. “What happened?”

Foggy just scratched his head. “I have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

 

After that absolutely horrifying experience, I had to distract myself by finding out more on Goliath, which meant a trip to the library.

Unfortunately, three hours at the computer led to absolutely nothing. The bank that he was in claimed no relation to the events surrounding the fight or why he showed up on their security camera feeds, which had been leaked to the press. If anyone else knew who or where he came from, they were keeping quiet. And the images of Goliath’s face were unrecognizable — he had been kept away from cameras as they stuffed him into an armored van and hauled him to Ravencroft, where he would no doubt be locked up in a high-security cell.

Danny, my new favorite blogger, also had no idea who he really was. In an effort to at least get _something_ out there, I sent him an anonymous email with the information I discovered, hoping that he’d read it and not send it to his spam box. I wasn’t sure how to convince him it was really me, Falcon, giving him this information, so just hoped that he’d at least look into it. What did he think of my almost-a-month-now disappearance? Did he think I was finally gone, or just staying out of limelight?

Either way, someone had to know. The people in this city couldn’t stay blind forever.

Ugh. I smacked my forehead, groaning at my own stupidity. All day I thinking of jokes and insults related to blindness, and even though I never said them aloud, I still felt incredibly guilty. What was wrong with me? Nothing bad even happened, but here I was obsessing over the incident like I just killed a man.

I mean, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Just because I wasn’t Falcon right now didn’t mean I didn’t have to care about other people, right? And Matt No-Last-Name and Foggy What’s-His-Face had been pretty cool about it, even though the latter certainly wanted to rub it in. I wasn’t sure I liked him so much.

Unfortunately, even in the library I was not safe from trouble. As I was getting up to leave and head home before my curfew ended, I spotted a couple of kids hunched in a dark part of the library, between two very dusty and used shelves.

They seemed to be trading something, passing their hands over each other before quickly stuffing their barter in their jackets, carefully hiding the objects to prevent identification.

I knew this behavior well. You’d see it all the time in school, kids hanging out under the bleachers or in the stairwell, passing cigarettes and other contraband between them when they thought no one was looking.

I paused, backtracking and sneaking in the aisle next to them, crouching down so they wouldn’t see my shadow behind the books. At least my hearing was in good condition, because I picked up on their voices with excellent clarity.

“...telling you, man, it’s all good!” the first one said, waving his hands in the air in a gesture of reassurance. “There’s plenty more where this stuff came from. I know a guy. He’s good for it.”

“You sure, man?” the other said, sounding unconvinced. “I heard this shit was high-market. You don’t just _find_ this stuff on accident. They have to give it to you first, after testing to make sure you don’t snitch.”

Whoever this ‘they’ was, I had a good feeling they weren’t looking out for the well-being of New York City’s youth. I continued to listen, hoping the dealer might reveal where his supplier was.

“It’s easy,” the dealer said with a little chuckle, sounding a little too overconfident for my tastes. But it was all right; that just meant he had no idea they were being eavesdropped. “First you gotta look the part. If they catch you doing anything a little less than legal, or you’re already good at dealing, they’ll approach you. This stuff is heavy, so they don’t keep it just anywhere. I heard they set up a new spot at Original Johnny’s Pizzeria. I usually go to the Circle-Q, but they closed down a week ago. I’m selling what’s left of my stash before I head over there. I’ve been vetted by some very _influential_ people, so they’ll know I’m good for it.”

Johnny’s Pizzeria? I knew that place. It was down by the Park, where a lot of vendors sold their wares, and families went on picnics and trips. A lot of school kids went there, because of the museums and nature walks. An excellent spot for targeting new buyers.

The two dispersed after that, and I followed the dealer, a scruffy guy with curly red hair and some beat-up combat boots, looking to be about in his mid-twenties. He walked in a weird sort of slouch-strut, which kind of made me want to punch him on that quality alone.

Following him was going to be a difficult matter. I wasn’t Falcon, so I didn’t have the advantage of flight or disguise to hide myself. I had no experience mundane stealth — all I knew came from the _Mission: Impossible_ movies, so I hoped that they would prove to be accurate while I tailed this guy.

Either those movies had it right, or this guy was an idiot, because I didn’t get spotted once. Keeping my distance, I followed the dealer out the library and down the avenue, going at an easy pace. I blended in well with the crowd and, thanks to my height deficiency, wasn’t easily seen over the shoulders of big businessmen and ladies in heels. My clothes, some jeans and a dark green jacket, didn’t stand out in anyway. The feeling of being invisible would usually be kind of sucky, but in this moment I felt sneaky and smart, and allowed myself to gloat a little. Maybe if this superhero stuff didn’t work out, I could be a spy.

Once we got to the park, the dealer started getting a little antsy, and that’s when my skills were tested. There were fewer people on the sidewalks now, and I knew that the dealer had seen me when he glanced behind him once. I pretended to be looking across the street, where some construction workers were working on some water pipes.

The dealer continued walking, not picking me out. I waited a few seconds before I decided to get any closer to him, in case the dealer figured out what I was doing.

I planned on not being seen again. If the dealer recognized me, he might not think I was just someone heading in the same direction anymore.

I didn’t necessarily _have_ to follow him, but I would prefer if the dealer got busted along with everyone else working shady business at Johnny’s.

The Park opened up to a large grey sky, and I headed onto the snow-covered grass, keeping my eye on the dealer from beyond some bushes. I waited until he passed the streets and crossed the road, pausing once more to look around before he went inside the Pizzeria.

Johnny’s wasn’t exactly the nicest place. Its canopy had holes in it and the door’s paint was chipped. There was no sign, just a piece of paper taped to the door with handwriting all over it. Apparently it had fallen on hard times. Maybe the suppliers knew that this place was desperate enough to take their business, or too desperate not to.

I found a payphone nearby — while I couldn’t bust them as Falcon, at least there were the police. They had to be good for something, right? And leaving an anonymous tip would certainly protect me.

I wasn’t sure how long I had to wait after hanging up, but I definitely wasn’t expecting results within the next few minutes.

Sirens came screeching down the streets, and I watched in surprise as two cop cars skidded to the curb, police officers jumping out and bursting inside, guns already out and loaded.

 _Whoa, whoa, whoa!_ I panicked, wondering if I sent the wrong message. I said a drug deal was going down, not terrorists building a bomb!

I scrambled out of the park, hoping that no one was going to get shot. Yet, even as I emerged from around the bend in the park path, I saw a policeman come out, heading to his car and sticking his head through the window, reaching for the radio. Had it gone down all right? Was he calling back-up?

I had no idea. Instead of just waiting around, I ducked by into the alley next to the building. I could see that there was an access in the back, where trucks could unload their goods. I hurried back there — if anyone thought of escaping through the fire exit, I might be able to stop them somehow.

Pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt, I crept around the back, staying careful not to be too loud as to draw attention. Just as I stepped into the clearing, the back door burst open, and out popped the drug dealer, looking panicked and ready to run. Out of his pockets fell tiny packages, filled with what looked like red candy. But I knew what it was.

Rosebud.

Crap.

The guy stumbled when he underestimated the drop of the steps, nearly falling flat on his face. More Rosebud fell out of his over-stuffed shirt; he was practically brimming with the stuff. Apparently he thought he thought he could get away and sell whatever he could grab before the cops confiscated everything.

As he picked himself up, the dealer spotted me, and froze. We stared at each other for one long moment, not quite sure how to deal with the unexpected development.

“You again?” the guy demanded, and I knew I was screwed.

Suddenly, he was shouting, “SNITCH! SNITCH!”

Startled, I had no idea what he was doing, and almost didn’t notice when the dealer reached for something in his waistband. But I already knew what he was going to do, and charged at him.

Before the dealer could even aim the gun at me, I swung my left arm, delivering a swift blow to the right side of his face. His head snapped back so hard he was knocked off his feet.

When he hit the ground, Rosebud exploded from his pockets and the gun fell away from his hand. The dealer dropped like a rock, completely out.

I was a little surprised. Damn, I thought he’d be harder to take out.

_Wham!_

The door flew open again, making me yelp in surprise as a cop burst out, gun raised. He took one look at the situation: first down at me, then down at the dealer, then back to me again.

My hands flew up. “I swear, I’m not —”

But I didn’t get a chance to explain myself before he fired.

“Whoa!” I threw myself out of the way, the bullet lodging itself into the wall behind me. I stared at the cop, my jaw dropping in disbelief. “What the hell, dude!”

But the cop wasn’t done. He kept firing more shots at me, his gun trailing while I kept moving. Luckily I had regained some of my speed and I ducked, throwing myself at him. The cop tried lowering his gun to follow my path, but didn’t get a chance to hit before I launched upwards, throwing a leg directly into his chest.

My foot connected and as he fell back, I used the momentum to throw myself into a spin, using my other leg to kick my heel into his face. The guard uttered a surprised cry before dropping, landing a second before I did.

Breathing hard, I considered finishing the job, since the guard was still moving. But I remembered that I wasn’t wearing a mask — just a hood that may or may not be covering my face all that well — and that the sooner I got out of here, the better. I couldn’t afford to hang around in case anyone else got involved.

The cop was still reaching for his fallen gun when I took off in a run. Instead of going down the alley, which would have been predictable and made me an easy target, I instead headed for the opposite wall.

A meter before I collided, I bent my knees and propelled myself upwards, twisting at the hip to plant my feet against the wall and launch myself up at the brick building. I reached out, my hands catching on the old iron fire-escape a story up, and hauled myself on top of the railing.

I could’ve taken the steps, but instead I threw myself back at the other wall, recommencing the game of Pong between buildings until I reached the top. I flipped over the side, making a three-point landing on the flat roof. My shoulder ached from having to pick myself up, but I felt angry and scared and excited, so the pain was only a dull reminder in the back of my head. I was safe now.

But I couldn’t just leave. I peeked over the side, careful not to be seen, as I watched the cop scan the area, having already gotten up. He looked up, apparently trying to figure out where I went, while yelling into the radio attached to his shoulder.

“...Got a female on the run, teens to late twenties,” I heard his voice echoed off the buildings. “Caucasian, about five-two, wearing a green jacket and a hood that covered her face. Be warned, she is hostile and dangerous, super fast and strong, may be one of those weird supers again...”

Aw, crap. I ducked down again, yanking off the sleeves of my jacket. Well, not gonna need this anymore.

Then the air went silent, and I glanced down again. Frowning, I watched as the police officer bent down, picking up the Rosebud that had fallen on the ground and — incredibly — started putting them into his _own pockets_.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get weirder, the policeman bent over the unconscious dealer, shaking him awake. Actually, he kicked the guy, which worked. The dealer jumped when he saw the cop standing over him, but didn’t try to run away.

Instead, he asked, “Did you see her? I think she was following me!”

“Idiot!” the cop spat, smacking the kid across the head. “You should’ve watched yourself next time. Now, scram, before someone sees you!”

I watch, jaw-dropped, as the kid nodded and scampered off, down the other end of the alley. I stayed just to see the cop shake his head and _not_ report the dealer to his radio before going back into the building, shouting at someone still inside.

I fell back on my butt, clutching my head as I looked up at the sky. Holy crap. This was even worse than I imagined.

_There were corrupt cops in the NYPD._


	20. Pro Bono

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is supposed to be Episode 6 in terms of chronology with the TV show, with the end going into Episode 7. I intend to skip a few episodes (which are about a week or two apart in terms of in-universe time) just to make this go by quicker. I don't have a mini-plot for each episode, so I don't want to drag this out any longer than I have to.
> 
> I hope I don't have to explain Daredevil's powers, and in the story I'm just going to assume you already have an idea how it works. But to save you a Google search, he's human for the most part — his superpower is essentially his radar sense, honed through hearing, smells, and sensing other changes in his environment. It's sharp enough that he can dodge bullets, although he's hindered by his own mortality. He doesn't have super-strength or speed or durability, so if he gets hurt, it's usually pretty bad. He's in peak physical condition, and wields two batons or escrima sticks (like Nightwing from DC comics).
> 
> So essentially he can locate people by their heartbeats, body temp, and breathing, and in the same way he can tell if they're lying, unhappy, in love, etc. He can also hear the sound of bones rubbing against each other, so it's very likely he can tell what sort of injury someone may have, if it's particularly debilitating.
> 
> Anyways, that should give you an idea of how he works. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Twenty**

**Pro Bono**

* * *

 

 

This is bad. This is really bad.

I wasn’t sure what was worse: that Rosebud was still on the streets, or that it was corrupt cops keeping it that way.

At the moment, I found myself in Hell’s Kitchen resident chapel, a humble little place that was quiet and usually empty at this time; perfect for reminiscing and thinking about my life, which wasn’t in that great a shape at the moment. It seemed appropriate, what with Jesus on the cross looking down at me from the apse. What would He have to say about all this?

Who the hell (hm, maybe I shouldn’t say that in a church) was I supposed to go to with this sort of information? I immediately thought of Captain Stacy; I knew in my heart he was as honest as they come, but I wondered if he would believe me. Cops were loyal to one another, as tight and as secretive as any mob or mafia, only they had government backing. If something went wrong, there might be nothing Captain Stacy could do about it.

I also didn’t want to put him (or Gwen!) in harm’s way in case anyone found me out. I had no doubt that the Rose’s moles on the force would take out anyone who knew too much; killing a captain and his family would get a lot of attention, but maybe the Rose was willing to go that far. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

Besides, I had no way to protect them even if I _could_ tell someone. I was about as defenseless as they were, only I couldn’t use a gun, so probably even less. It didn’t feel right to just dump the responsibility on them while I stuck my head in the dirt and pretended everything was going to be all right.

Of course, when I explained to Peter everything that had happened to me that day, he zeroed in on the most important part of my story.

I had the opportunity early the next morning after the incident, in school, during AP US History. We had been currently working in groups, trying to build a power point presentation on whatever particular Civil War battle we had been assigned.

Not that me and Peter were getting a lot of head-way. He was too busy dealing with me to mark down the strategic advantages General Lee had in the Battle of Gettysburg, which he ultimately lost. I didn’t really care about some old dead guy when Peter was giving me crap for the wrong thing.

“You hit a _blind man_?” Peter gawked at me when I was finished. “Oh, my god, you’re a horrible person.”

“It was an accident!” I protested, even though I knew he was just joking. Still, I had been a little frustrated that this was what bothered him, and not the whole cops-letting-drugs-on-the-street thing. “It’s not like I go around beating up blind people in my free time!”

“Did you say sorry?”

“Of course I said sorry!”

“You should send him a ‘Get Well’ Card.”

“ _Peter!_ ”

“What? I meant the bruises, not his blindness!”

“I swear to god...” My face fell into my hands. It was like everywhere I went, I had to have my own humiliation rubbed into my face. I said, my voice muffled, “Just start the next slide, Einstein.”

Peter didn’t really have any advice for me, although he did promise to keep an eye out when he was on patrol. It was hard to nab criminals when you’re wondering if the police will even deal with them properly, but you had to try nonetheless. There had to be _some_ good cops, too, right?

A week later, and I still wasn’t sure. I guess that’s why I came here, to this chapel; I could really do with a miracle at the moment.

I never considered myself particularly religious, but as I sat there in that chapel, I felt like I was a part of something... _bigger_. The sheer presence of this stone, literal tons of it, on all sides, somehow standing despite their weight, assembled before the age of modern technology. It was a sight that could awe anyone, no matter what you believed in.

It wasn't anything like a skyscraper. Skyscrapers were new, built with steel and glass and not nearly as _heavy_ as this cathedral. How could columns this big even exist? How did those flying buttresses, filled with gothic patterns, even hold up those walls? How long did it take to craft all of that stained glass? Who had to keep this place clean 24/7?

My radar failed to absorb the entirety of this structure. Then again, my radar failed to absorb anything these past few days, but it felt different in here. So I just sat in the pew, looking up at the ceiling, marveling at the height that made me completely forget that I've been higher.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice said, making me jerk out of my reverie.

I looked around, saw a man in a suit standing at the end of the aisle. He smiled at me, eyes hidden behind red glasses, cane held against his side. I recognized the blind lawyer, Mr. Matthew Murdoch (I had become familiar with his practice after a quick Google search), although I had no idea why he was here.

And now that I thought about it, I wondered how Murdoch even knew I was there. Or what the church looked like. I mean, maybe it wasn’t a stretch to think a place like this beautiful if you couldn’t see it, and he was just making conversation; or maybe he was joking, making fun of me. Maybe he was capable of a level of sarcasm I couldn’t comprehend.

It felt rude to ask. Usually, I wouldn't care about my behavior, especially in the presence of strangers, but I kind of liked him. The lawyer had so far been kind to me, and it was nice to know there was someone out there fighting the same fight. And it’d take a soulless asshole to pick on a blind man.  "Um, yeah. It's... breathtaking."

He seemed to notice I was staring and smiled. I realized that his sunglasses had been fixed, and wondered if his friend Foggy was nearby. Murdoch motioned to the seat next to me, asking, "May I?"

"Yeah, sure." I sidled a little to the right, even though there was still roughly a meter of distance between us already. What did he want? I had a bad feeling I was about to get comeuppance for my clumsiness last week.

As the man settled himself, he turned his head in my direction and asked, "So what's a high school student doing in a church on a Friday night? Shouldn’t you be out partying with your friends, getting drunk and singing a Katy Perry song?"

"I could ask you the same question," I shot back. He couldn’t see the sling, which would have made as good a reason as any why I wasn’t living wild, reckless, and free at the moment. "How did you know I go to high school?"

"Your voice. You sound young." The man replied, gazing ahead towards the apse. I couldn't see his eyes, even in profile view, thanks to his glasses. I wondered, with morbid curiosity, what his eyes looked like. "Kids your age don't usually take extra interest in religion, do they? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course."

"No, I'm just here to think." I said. Belief or not, this cathedral was a wonderful place to clear my head. It was big and echoey, enough empty space and solid structure that it wasn’t distracting. The lack of people was nice, too. I’ve never run into anyone annoying here. "I like the atmosphere. It's...calming. What about you, esquire?"

"I wander in every other night or so," Mr. Murdock chuckled a little at the nickname. "Dad raised me Catholic. I come here to think of him."

"Oh." I tried not to dwell too long on the implication of those words, but it felt too obvious to ignore. "He's...not here anymore?"

"Passed on to a better place," the was a sad smile on his face and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from thinking too much about Mom, or what happened to her. "It's nice to know he's watching over me. Sometimes you don't always know what you're doing is right, or if it's what they wanted for you. He probably didn't think I'd turn into a lawyer and still live in Hell's Kitchen after all these years."

"Why do you, Mr. Murdoch?" Hell's Kitchen wasn't exactly rainbows and unicorns; if I got a degree in law, I'd get the heck out of Dodge.

"It's home. You can't forget home." He replied, then tapped the side of my shoe with his cane. "And you can just call me Matt. Only the judge calls me Mr. Murdoch."

"I'm...Amy." I said after a pause, wondering if that was the right choice to make. It felt weird, making friends — friends who were ten years my senior, too. It seemed easier to talk to Matt than it was to Dorian. Was it bad that I was relating to old people, rather than my own age?

Then I wondered if he recognized me, my voice, from the last time we met. I had a feeling that he did.  "We've met before, you know.  I, uh, almost ran you over, last Sunday?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember," the man — Matt, I guess — nodded with an enlightened air. "The Running Girl. I knew I recognized your voice. Funny meeting you again, here of all places."

"Well, we live in the same neighborhood." I said, deciding that correlation between me and Falcon wasn't that big of a deal. He wouldn't be able to tell it was me through the voice changer anyways, "My apartment building is only a couple blocks away."

"And your parents know you're here?"

I took a deep breath, paused, then decided to lie. I liked this lawyer, but I wasn't ready to tell him the whole truth. "Yeah. They know my habits. They know I'm safe."

"On these streets?" He sounded skeptical.

"I grew up here, too, you know. I can handle myself." Was I really getting lectured on street safety by a blind man? There seemed to be an irony there, but I couldn’t quite define it.

“If you say so.” Matt just shrugged, sounding a little too nonchalant. I had a feeling he still had something to say on the matter. “Just don’t go looking for trouble, all right?”  
  
“I don’t go looking for trouble,” I snorted, wondering how in the world some small-time lawyer ever got the idea. I mean, he’s not _wrong_. But that’s also kind of the problem. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Trouble has a way of finding people in this city,” he replied, gripping his cane with both hands as he faced straight ahead. “And even the best intentions can get people hurt. Especially if they try taking the law into their own hands.”

My heart skipped a beat. I whirled around to stare at him, my mouth falling open but nothing coming out. How the hell—? What should I do? Deny everything, or demand what he knows?

My mind was reeling and every nerve was suddenly telling me to run while I still could. But instead I stuttered, “I’m not...I mean, I never...”

But Matt just raised a hand, stopping me. “I heard about the drug bust by the Park. It was on the news. And maybe this is just the inane ramblings of a blind man, but I had the feeling that whoever tipped off the police might have also seen something they shouldn’t have. And they were fast enough to get away.”

He waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, the lawyer tilted his head. “Am I wrong?”

The breath I had been holding in came out in a huge whoosh, and my heart finally returned to its usual beat. For a second I thought everything was forfeit. That my secret was out, that I’d have to escape while I still could. Holy crap.

“...Maybe,” I mumbled eventually.

So he didn’t know I was Falcon. But that didn’t change the fact that Matt Murdoch still thought I was up to something.

“Why do I get the feeling it won’t be the last time that happens?” he asked me, no longer smiling. He didn’t sound angry or upset, or that he was going to tell the police (which would be even worse than I first imagined), but rather contemplative, maybe even disappointed.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so comfortable around him anymore. I snapped to my feet, so abruptly that even Matt noticed, and I said, “Maybe you should just mind your own business, esquire.”

I had just left the pew from the other end when I heard him say, “Amy, wait.”

I paused, glancing over my shoulder. Matt, too, had stood up, facing my direction. His face was entirely impassive, and I had a feeling his poker face would be a tough one to crack.

But his earnesty was revealed in his voice. “I’m not here to attack you. I’m just worried that you’ll get into more trouble than you can handle. Eventually, you’re going to pick a fight you can’t win.”

As ‘inspiring’ as his words of wisdom were, I was not impressed. Who did this guy think he was, my brother? “Why do you even care?”

“Because I want justice, too,” he replied, making me feel a twinge guilty. “But I have a better way — a _safer_ way — of getting it.”

Well, obviously. I still wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. “What, so I should become a lawyer, like you? Sorry, but I’m not gonna wait around for another five years before I get my degree.”

“You don’t have to,” Matt said, and his lips quirked up in a shadow of a smile. “But you can work for me.”

“I...what?” I had been ready to rebuke his stupid idea, only to be caught off guard. I thought he was going to tell me to go to the police, or let the adults handle it, or call Spider-Man, or any number of other unhelpful suggestions that popped up in my head. A job offer was not one of them.

“You seem like the kind of person who has a good sense between right and wrong,” he told me. I was now listening raptly, not entirely believing this was happening. “But you don’t know how to apply yourself correctly. If you work at Nelson and Murdoch, you’ll get firsthand experience at how real justice works.”

Work at a law firm? I bit my lip, examining the floor. I’ve never had a real job before, and I certainly never thought it might be working for something so prestigious. To be honest, I thought I’d end up flipping burgers like my mom, just to pay my way through college. “...I don’t know. My life, it’s —”

“Complicated?” Matt guessed with a knowing smile.

“Yeah,” I muttered, scowling at him. I got the feeling that Matt was kind of a know-it-all and liked to show off a little. But it was hard to feel resentful if he was always right.

“Consider my offer,” he said, gesturing with his hand as a sign of peace. “Come by my office when you’re ready. If not, well, you’ll never have to see me again. It’s entirely up to you what you want to do with your life. I just don’t want to see it go to waste.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said, frowning, starting to back away. I turned around, headed for the door. “I guess.”

And I left the chapel, leaving Matthew Murdoch, attorney at law, inside.

 

* * *

 

“So he offered you a job, right then and there?” Dorian asked, taking a bite into his sandwich. Through a mouthful of bread and ham, he said, “You should totally do it! Do you know how hard it is to find a job these days? He practically handed it to you on a platter?”

We were currently on our second-and-a-half date (this didn’t necessarily count since we ran into each other on accident) at the Silver Spoon. It was nice to have lunch together, especially on a Saturday when I was bored out of my mind. At least I didn’t have to worry about being late to anything anymore.

“I know,” I said, poking at my burger with disinterest. I had been ruminating the decision for several days now, but I kept falling back on the same problem. Would it really help? Could working for Nelson and Murdoch really do what I wanted it to? Or would it just slow me down, distract me or worse, ruin everything? Matt already seemed to know so much. “It’s just...I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

“Ready for what? An actual paycheck?” Dorian raised a pale eyebrow. “Yeah, too much responsibility for me.”

I rolled my eyes, not appreciating the sarcasm. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just not really that interested in the law...”

That sounded like such a bad lie, I was sure Dorian would pick up on it. But he just shrugged. “So it might be hard. But it’s not like he’s going to make you stand in front of the jury and defend a client. You’ll probably be like a secretary or an assistant, writing notes and stuff. You said he was blind?”

“Yeah,” I frowned to myself. I really hoped my duties wouldn’t just be keeping things organized. I mean, maybe hoping for a more exciting experience was too much to ask, since I had no experience whatsoever, but still. It wasn’t exactly my idea of effectively handing out justice. “He seems all right. I don’t know why he seems so concerned about me, though. I barely even know him.”

“Well look on the bright side,” Dorian offered, holding up a hand. “He actually cares about people, which a good sign for a lawyer. And it’s a lot better than working at the supermarket, like I am. Customer service is literally one of the worst thing you have to do, outside of maybe being a janitor or something. I’d say take it. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Hm, maybe you’re right,” I finally said, but I was still unsure on the matter. Needing to change the subject, I took a sip from my soda. “So how’s that photography class going?”

“Oh, it’s great,” Dorian grinned, not even noticing the switch for what it was. “We’re basically just compiling images of our chosen theme, but almost everyone chose Spider-Man, so it’s basically turned into a competition of who gets the best shots of him.”

“Oh, really?” I laughed, not entirely surprised. You could get paid good money for a clear shot, although I doubted they got the same quality pictures as Peter did. “And whose winning? You?”

“Nah,” Dorian just shook his head. “I can barely hold a camera steady. But my teacher uses Spider-Man pictures a lot, the ones from the _Bugle_ , I mean. Whoever takes them is really good at candid photography.”

I decided whether or not I should tell him that Peter was actually my cousin. Would that be too much? I didn’t want to encourage Dorian — I didn’t want him to risk his life running after Spider-Man and getting too close to fights, just to get a good shot. So I said, “They make a lot of money that way. I heard Spider-Man actually calls a guy right before he gets into a fight, so he has someone take pictures of him for the news.”

“No way!” Dorian threw me a look of astonishment. “Seriously? That’s so cool — I mean, having the job. Not so much the ego.”

Even if it was a lie, I had to admit, Peter kind of got overconfident when he was wearing the mask. It’s not that surprising — anonymity was a powerful tool and sometimes made you feel like you were invincible. “One of the dangers of being a superhero, I guess.”

Dorian was kind of an artist, as I learned over the past couple weeks. Photography was his latest interest, although he was more into music than cameras. He wasn’t in a band as far as I knew, but he did play guitar, and liked to write songs.

Whenever I asked to hear, though, Dorian just flushed and said they weren’t finished yet. I didn’t know there was someone out there even shier than I was. Then again, I had no talents or hobbies to share, so maybe it was all right.

Dorian wasn’t convinced, though, and said about as much some time later, while we were walking through Chinatown, looking for another good place to eat. It was sort of our thing now, to go to movies and then chat afterwards over a meal. Maybe it wasn’t the most original thing, but I had to keep myself in a sling whenever I was around him, so it stood to reason that we couldn’t try anything too adventurous.

“So you’re telling me that you don’t do _anything_ for fun?” he asked me with a disbelieving look. “What are you, a robot?”

“No! I’m not a robot,” I said, trying hard not to laugh. “I just...don’t have a lot of time. And I really like watching movies. It’s fun for me. I mean, the only other thing is computers, but then, who doesn’t like computers?”

“I dunno. Luddites?”

Laughing, we were just passing under a scaffolding when a group of teenagers came rushing through from the other end. It took me less than a second to realize they were bad news: dressed in dark, ratty clothes, tattoos on their hands, multiple piercings, and a notable lack of slowing down when they came nearer.

“Look out!” I barely had time to pull Dorian out of the way before one of the idiots rammed into me, knocking me straight to the ground. The kid, with black eye liner and greasy hair, just cackled and kept going. “Watch it, loser!”

The other three punks slowed to a stop, apparently finding easy targets in a small girl and a skinny boy. They shoved Dorian into the poles of the scaffolding, making him cry out in surprise. I winced in sympathy, but didn’t get up. I still had the element of surprise in this situation, and if they thought I was helpless, then all the better.

“Check out this pansy!” one of the jerks pointed at Dorian, a sneer on his face. The guy needed a dentist. He started speaking in a mocking baby-voice: “Aww, what’s a’ matter? You gonna cwy, wittle baby? Wah-wah!”

“Shut up, I’m not –!” Dorian said through gritted teeth, but the boys kept going, on a roll.

“Oh, look at that, he can talk!” another chortled, wiping invisible tears from his grimy face. “You gonna call ye mommy? Is she gonna come with a baby bottle? Or is she gonna take her shirt off and –”

All right, enough of that.

Before the kid could finish, I swept my leg ( _thank you, Karate Kid_ ). My heel connected with the back of his knee and the kid yelped, dropping down. He opened his mouth to shout, raised his fists to fight, but I had already brought back my foot and returned it to his face.

 _Thump._ He dropped to the cement, unconscious.

“THE HELL WAS THAT?” one of the punk’s shouted. The other three immediately backed off, now wary.

I got up, leaning on the metal bars to help me. Brushing hair out of my face, I said, “How about you fight somebody your own size.”

“What? Little gimp bitch like you?” one of them snorted with forced bravado. I guessed him to the leader, since he was the only one wearing a leather jacket with a gang badge on the shoulder. Of course, now that he started speaking, the others were looking more confident as well. Leather Jacket punched his fist into his other palm. “Maybe we should teach you a lesson – Hambone, get her!”

Hambone, who lived up to his namesake by being the largest mofo on this side of the Hudson, grinned wide and lumbered up to me. Almost six feet tall, he towered over everyone else, head nearly brushed the lowest bars in the scaffolding. He readjusted his fingerless gloves, saying, “Check it out, bitch thinks she’s tough. How’d you get that scar on your face there, huh?”

Absently, I reached to touch it. The one on my lip, after I busted it open during my first ever fight with a thug. I felt the shallow ridge cutting itself from my upper lip to my chin. I just suppressed a smile and said with wry honesty, “The White Rose. How’d you get that broken nose?”

“Broken what?” Hambone frowned, right before I grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked down, my strength compensating for his mass, and slammed his face to my knee.

Hambone fell, curling up in a fetal position as he covered his face with his hands, groaning weakly. I looked at the other two, gone pale, and said, “I call that one the Kneebuster.”

There was a second of silence as the other two punks just stared at me, paling a little. Then Leather Jacket’s remaining compatriot shook with sudden vigor, somehow emboldened by Hambone’s defeat.

He suddenly charged at me, shouting, “Gah!”

I wasn’t exactly sure how he expected to land such a telegraphed move. “What kind of move is that?” I asked, ducking the strike and pushing him, sending the already too-fast idiot into the brick wall behind me. He smashed into it face-first and fell on his back, dazed.

Leather Jacket froze when I turned on him. “What? Aren’t you going to join them?”

“Uh, uh, uh,” with wide eyes, the kid looked around in a panic, as if somehow expecting to see his friends get back up from what was honestly an unfair fight. But when none came to his aid, Leather Jacket quailed. He suddenly snatched Dorian’s hat off (as if that was somehow a victory) and shouted, “This is mine!” before taking off in a head-long sprint.

“Hey, give it back!” Dorian’s hands flew to his head too late, the hat already clutched in Leather Jacket’s hands. Dorian had been sitting on the tarmac during the entire – albeit brief – showdown, and only now was getting up to retrieve what was his.

But before he could stop his knees from knocking together, I said, “Don’t worry, I got him!” and ran after Leather Jacket without another word.

The sling didn’t even slow me down, and I didn’t even consider what Dorian might be thinking at the moment. The thug had turned the corner a second ago and when I rounded it, he was already thirty feet ahead. But his normal human legs had nothing on my super-soldier-serum enhanced ones, and I was quickly catching up.

Leather Jacket made the mistake of looking behind him. There was a grin on his face, like he actually thought he was getting away, but when he saw me closing ground, he yelped in fright. A split-second later, he tripped on a trash can he would’ve seen had he not gotten arrogant, and smashed his face into the ground.

I slowed to a stop a few feet away, taking my time to actually just walk up to the fallen punk and pluck the hat from his hands. Leather Jacket looked up at me, eyes wide, saying, “Don’t hurt me, please! We was just trying to have some fun –”

“I wouldn’t quit my day job if I were you, dude,” I replied, deciding not to kick the kid while he was down. That’d be mean, and he was just some misguided delinquent, not a gang member with any real experience or loyalty. A part of me was hopeful, that he might make a change for a better. “Consider this a fair warning, an opportunity to turn your life around before you get someone _really_ ticked off, all right? Tell your friends, too, before they get their asses kicked again.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, sure, whatever you say,” the kid nodded frantically, was already up and running away. Hmph, good riddance.

I turned around, started heading back to Dorian when he appeared around the corner, the hood of his sweater pulled up. I thought it odd, but didn’t question it as I handed over the hat. “One hat, hold the punk.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dorian gave me a wary smile, taking the knitted object with sudden delicacy. I felt kind of bad – I guess he was now seeing me in a new light, thanks to the fight. “Holy crap. Are you all right?”

He meant me with the sling. I glanced down at it, almost forgetting that I had been hindered at all. I had been careful to avoid using that arm, so it didn’t particularly hurt. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I was being careful.”

“Wow.” Dorian’s eyebrows shot _way_ up. “That, uh, that back there was, uh...pretty impressive. Are you a professional in breaking people’s faces?”

“Only the bad ones,” I said with what I hoped to be a nice look. I didn’t know why I suddenly didn’t want to intimidate him anymore; although I suppose just looking mean and actually kicking ass were two very different things.

“So you train.”

“Judo. Muay Thai.” I stated matter-of-factly, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Kickboxing. I’m thinking about learning Tae Kwon Do, has more emphasis on the legs.”

“Because a girl can never know too many martial arts,” Dorian said, a wry smile drawing on his face. It made me feel better, knowing he was making an attempt at humor, that he was okay with it – at least he wasn’t going to run away from me, screaming.

“Basically,” I said, deciding to go with his reasoning rather than the truth. Dorian still had his hat in his hands, hadn’t moved since I’d given it to him. “Uh, aren’t you going to put it back on?”

“Oh, right,” Dorian chuckled nervously, eyes flicking everywhere but me. I frowned. Why was he nervous all of a sudden? Did he think I was going to attack him, too? “Yeah, um, sure...”

Another pause. I raised my eyebrows at him. “Is there something wrong?”

“Um, no,” Dorian said, rather unconvincingly. He gazed at me for a moment, his brow rising in worry. “Would you, er, mind closing your eyes for a second?”

“...no?” I had no idea what to say to that. But Dorian looked earnest and I just sighed and covered my eyes with my hand. “All right. Can’t see anything. You’re not going to turn into a werewolf or anything, are you?”

“What? No, I’m not a werewolf,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Okay, you can look now.”

When I did, I was not surprised to see he hadn’t grown fangs or fur or anything. No, nothing had changed about his appearance, aside from the hat now being on his head instead of in his hands. “Can I ask what’s with that, or is it a weird personal thing you don’t want to talk about?”

“Erm,” Dorian looked away for a moment, crossing his arms and tucking his hands away in a decidedly embarrassed gesture. He bit his lip in consideration, before glancing at me to gauge my reaction when he said, “The last one?”

“Oh, okay.” I said, deciding to put it out of my mind. Unless whatever he hid under his hat was, like, a bomb or something, I wasn’t concerned. Maybe he got a bad haircut, I don’t know. With a careless shrug, I walked around him and called, “Come on, we should head back to MJ and the others, they’ll probably wonder where we’ve gone.”

“Wait, you’re not bothered by it?” Dorian spun around, apparently surprised.

When he caught up with me, I kind of just laughed. “Everyone’s got secrets. I don’t know about the other people you’ve met, but I’m not the kind of person who has nothing better to do than take people’s hats off to find out what they’re hiding underneath.” I remarked. Still, I found myself going back in time, trying to recall what his head looked when the punk stole his hat. I was so in the moment that I hadn’t really paid attention. He had hair, was all I remembered, and it had been too dark to recall anything else. “Seriously, if people do that to you, tell them to buzz off.”

“Or I can just let you handle them,” Dorian offered.

I threw him an eye roll. “Sorry, I can’t fight _all_ your battles. That back there was just pro bono.”

A dark chuckle filled the air, startling me. A low voice said, “That’s funny, coming from you,”

I suddenly halted. My blood went cold. Then, slowly, I pivoted on my heel. Barely able to breathe, I stared at the man standing behind us.

Eddie Brock. Smiling.


	21. Nec Spe, Nec Metu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE DAREDEVIL. That is all.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**Nec Spe, Nec Metu**

* * *

 

 

“Eddie?” I asked, my throat going dry. There was something _very_ not right with this. The way he loomed, the way he smiled, the way he was talking to me, right out in the open. My skin crawled at the realization we had been eavesdropped. “What are you doing here?”

“What, I can’t say hi to an old friend?” Eddie asked with a tilt of his head, sounding hurt. But it was only a ruse. I could hear the mocking in his voice.

“Amy, what’s going on?” Dorian asked, casting me a worried frown. He looked about as nervous as I felt. Eddie was giving off serious creep vibes and I was afraid he might attack us.

“Yeah, Amy, what _is_ going on?” Eddie asked, not taking his eyes off of me. It was intimidating, almost predator-like, but I refused to let my fear show. Not for Eddie, not for Dorian. “Have you already moved on?”

“You know him?” For some reason, Dorian sounded accusing, and I was liking this situation even less and less. “Who is this guy?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you about me?” Eddie asked, his head flicking in Dorian’s direction. The boy stepped back, but he seemed transfixed by the piercing blue glare. “Well, that’s just like you, isn’t it, Amy? Always keeping secrets. Always hurting others. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“What the hell do you want?” I demanded, my hands clenching. Every nerve was on end as I rocked on the balls of my feet. If Eddie wanted a fight, he was going to get one.

But Eddie didn’t look too interested, actually. He said, “Well, I’ll take that as a no, then. Not that I’m surprised. You could never tell me the truth when we were together. You even ruined my life when I broke it off.”

“ _What?!”_ I blurted, so amazed and enraged by this utter bullshit that I had absolutely no other response to this.

Dorian looked equally as shocked, but didn’t say anything, which Eddie used as an opportunity to elaborate: “She sabotaged my job, got my fired and ruined my scholarship. I had to drop out of NYU because of her. And I didn’t even get an apology. You should run while you still have the chance.”

“No, Dorian, wait —!” I started, turning to Dorian, but he was already backing away, shaking his head and looking at me like I was some sort of freak.

“No,” he just shook his head, stumbling when his heel caught against a fallen piece of trash. “No, no way. I’m out of here.”

Dorian turned and ran.

“No, please, he’s lying!” I cried, but it was no use. Dorian had already disappeared around the corner. I stared at the spot where he vanished, waiting a few desperate seconds, hoping that maybe he’d realize that Eddie was crazy, or at least hear out my side of the story — but it never happened.

Two seconds ago, Dorian and I were laughing together. Things were just getting good; I was comfortable and happy around him; I thought I had something worth fighting for in my life. Now Dorian never wanted to see me again. All thanks to Eddie, who got exactly what he wanted.

Well, he was going to get more than he bargained for.

 _You want revenge? I’ll show you_ revenge _._

“How dare you.” I said, my voice low, barely above a whisper.

“What was that?” I heard Eddie ask, teasing. “You’re gonna have to speak up, sweetheart.”

Eyes burning, fists shaking, I whipped back around to face the smirking Eddie. My vision shimmered as the blood started to pound in my ears. “How dare you! Is this what you wanted? Do you feel vindicated now that you’ve scared some boy away from me? Does that make you feel strong, better than me?”

Eddie didn’t seem bothered that I had raised my voice to a shout, even though it was starting to attract the looks of passerby. This smirk seemed to be permanently glued to his face. “Like I said, you ruined my life, Amy. You destroyed everything I cared about, everything I worked for. I’m your worst nightmare.”

“What, you think I’m afraid of you?” I spat, sneering at his gravitas. The corners of my vision was starting to turn red, but I didn’t care. “I didn’t destroy anything, _you’re_ the one who threw it all away. Instead of finding help, a solution, you decided to blame it on somebody else. It’s never your fault, is it, Eddie? Because you know what? You’re just a bully, selfish and lazy. And you always will be.”

 _Now_ the smirk was gone, erased by the bruised ego, the insult of being demoted down to ‘bully’ rather than the arch-nemesis he prided himself to be. “Really? Can a bully do _this_?”

He held out his arms as the black of his jacket suddenly exploded, solid turning to liquid and wrapping its slick black goo all over him, until once more Venom stood before me. He grinned his awful pointed grin, forked tongue flicking out like a snake.

All around me, people screamed in terror, clearly recognizing this monster from his last appearance. There was nearly a stampede as people tried to escape the scene, and when a few onlookers tried to stay and see what happened, Venom ripped a chunk out of the tarmac and threw it at them, laughing as they cried out and scattered.

The street emptied in less than a minute. Venom seemed pleased with this development as he looked around, saying, “Finally. Some alone time with my favorite girl.”

I’d say I was surprised, but at this point I was ready for pretty much anything. My voice was entirely calm when I said, “Bullies don’t scare me anymore, Eddie. They just make me angry.”

And all around me the world was starting to shake. I released my fists, splaying out my fingers and arms, and suddenly all around me was an explosion of sound and energy. Trash cans went flying. Signs ripped themselves from the ground. The streetlamps swayed dangerously in their posts as debris whipped through the air, a deadly orbit of destruction.

And Eddie was caught right in the middle of it. The fierce wind scraped at his black suit, tearing at it, and he brought up his arms to protect his face. The symbiote shrieked as this strange storm tried tearing it off its host.

But I couldn’t see any of this. My vision had turned entirely red. I was no longer in control.

Perhaps it was spontaneous. Perhaps it had been building up for weeks. Maybe the break-up, the sudden emotions triggered it. I didn’t know, because I couldn’t feel it, until I suddenly let it all out. My chest felt hollow while the world around me became denser and denser with decompressed power.

And then it stopped, all at once. Things dropped from the sky, and everything went quiet. My vision cleared and I was staring at a normal Eddie, down on his knees, staring at me with a look that could only be described as awe and hate mixed into one.

I was breathing hard. My knees threatened to buckle underneath me. I had no energy left. I could feel my powers abandoning me once more. But that didn’t stop me from saying: “Take this as a warning. I might not be able to stop next time.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. He just scowled, slipping back into the symbiote as he got up. He took one last look at me before swinging away.

* * *

 

Peter was all over the news that next morning.

There were paparazzi at our door, reporters ringing the phone off the hook, news vans already parked outside Aunt May’s house at 5 AM. I could barely get out the front door without being assaulted with microphones and a thousand questions about Spider-Man’s identity.

I only told them one thing. “He’s not Spider-Man.”

Of course, Peter could barely get a word in edgewise. Everyone believed it, somehow trusting the words of the gigantic, hissing Venom that smashed his way into the _Bugle_ offices to reveal to the world that Peter Parker was Spider-Man. It was probably because J. Jonah Jameson just took that information and ran with it, not even bothering to fact check before issuing the paper.

And everyone wanted the answer, ever since Spider-Man first hit the streets. Who really is Spider-Man? Who is behind that mask?

Peter had to take the bus with me, since he obviously couldn’t just swing to school when the whole world was watching his house. Aunt May had a hard enough time beating them away with her broom.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said to me while on the bus, after we ducked a mob of reporters and avoided everyone else’s questions. I could feel people staring at us, but a glare or two kept them at bay. “This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s _Eddie’s_ fault,” I corrected, glancing over my shoulder and eyeing the boy who was taking pictures of us with his phone. He paled at my look and quickly hid it in his sleeve. “He’s trying to ruin our lives.”

“Well, he’s doing a fantastic job.”

“They can’t prove anything,” I turned back to him, lowered my voice and bowing my head so no one could overhear. “You’re just Peter Parker, teenaged freelance photographer and occasional science genius. The _Bugle_ -and in that case, the _police_ \- can’t do anything until they have physical proof. Which they won’t get, obviously.”

“Right,” Peter nodded his head, looking a little more relaxed at the thought, but not by much. He fixed me with a curious look. “I just don’t get why didn’t Eddie out you, too? Ruining your dating life is peanuts in comparison — uh, no offense. Why wouldn’t he go for the double whammy?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” I muttered.

I didn’t know why Eddie didn’t tell them about me. Why he would try to expose Spider-Man but not the Falcon. Maybe it was because of the media. The _Bugle_ and other news outlets had been speculating the Falcon had been dead for weeks now; apparently that was the only reason that I could have been taken off the streets; or, according to the conspiracy theorists, I had been kidnapped by the government to be experimented on.

I knew there were certainly a number of people out there glad that they didn’t have to worry about me anymore, or so they thought. But Eddie couldn’t be doing this for their benefit.

Maybe Eddie had a different plan for me. Maybe he knew that telling them about me might not be as satisfactory as Peter — I had destroyed my suit, after all. My helmet and gloves were well hidden. They would have a very hard time finding evidence.

But I had a bad feeling that maybe I wasn’t as important to him as I was to Peter. Eddie wants to hurt Peter, like he tried to hurt me, but he wanted to hurt Peter more. Not in the usual way, of physical pain, of direct attack; but rather through more nefarious means.   
  
School was a nightmare, at least more than it usually was. Each class was tense, as teachers pretended they haven’t been watching the news recently and kids tried to focus on their work - but they couldn’t help but stare at Peter and me, asking incessant questions. Always the same. And they always got the same answer.

“Are you really Spider-Man?”

“No.”

“Can I be your sidekick?”

“I don’t think Spider-Man wants a sidekick. Especially not you.”

“Is Peter really Spider-Man? Can you get his autograph for me?”

“No. Ask him yourself, see how well that goes.”

“What is your suit made out of? I got ten on spandex, but Jim thinks its organic structure you secrete from the pores in your skin.”

“What the heck are you talking about? I’m not Spider-Man, I have no idea.”

“So, are you like Spider-Man’s personal body guard? Have you ever had to beat someone up?”

“No, but I’m willing to make an exception, if you don’t shut up right now.”

“So if you’re Spider-Man, you must’ve killed someone before, right?”

“What? No! For the last time, I’m not Spider-Man!”

It was exhausting, and it was even worse when people I thought were completely rational believed the rumors, too. In fact, the only people who _didn’t_ buy into the whole thing was Flash Thompson and Sally Avril, on the basis that Peter Parker was a nerd, and Spider-Man was way too cool to be one of those.

(Not lying. And this is completely disregarding the fact that everyone I trusted is _correct_ , and the rumors are true, but that’s not the point. It’s one thing to believe Peter is Spider-Man because you’ve seen it yourself, or have proof; and a completely different thing when you’re just going off word alone of a homicidal maniac with a grudge against Spider-Man. Certainly not a bias to take at face value, no matter how much truth he claims to know.)

I really thought things couldn’t get any worse until Gwen stopped me in the hall after lunch, a small corner where we wouldn’t be seen. “Amy, I have to talk to you.”

Oh, god. “It’s about Peter, isn’t it?”

She bit her lip, glancing away in guilt. “It’s just...what everyone is saying. Is it true? Was Peter Spider-Man this whole time?”

“Seriously? Okay, talking hypothetically here, and I’m not saying he is, but _if_ Peter really is Spider-Man, why would he tell me that? It’s not a secret identity if someone else knows.”

“Well, he trusts you, doesn’t he?”

“Gwen, this isn’t funny. Peter’s not Spider-Man. You know that.”

“But, I mean...it almost makes sense, doesn’t it? Peter’s always late to things, he got really athletic out of nowhere, he gets these weird bruises like he’s been in fights...he even showed up to Halloween as Spider-Man! You never thought that was suspicious?”

“I thought it was weird, yeah. But some people change. And Peter’s still Peter, you know? He didn’t just magically transform into a jock or anything. And you know the neighborhood is rough. People get mugged all the time.”

“Less because of Spider-Man.” Gwen pointed out, hugging her books to her chest. “But Peter _has_ changed. He’s not the same person I knew last year.”

“True, but still. I mean, come on. Is _Harry_ the same person you knew last year? Or me?”

I realized how unbelievably stupid it was of me to bring myself up in this conversation; I didn’t want Gwen to put two-and-two together and think that I, too, might be a superhero, since she was the only one going at this rationally; putting personal experiences and evidence together to come to a semi-logical conclusion like an actual detective would. Gwen was the only person I was legitimately afraid of actually figuring this out, if she hadn’t already.

Well, her and her dad, Captain Stacy. And Harry. And Aunt May. And J. Jonah Jameson. And maybe Flash. But just them.

“No,” Gwen finally admitted with a defeated sigh, her shoulders sagging. She just ran a hand over her hair, looking tired. “Sorry, Amy, I don’t mean to sound accusing. I’m not angry or - or anything. I just...things are so weird right now. Between me and Peter, and me and Harry. We’re going out now, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, nodding my head and rolling my eyes, but secretly glad for the change in subject. “Trust me, it couldn’t be more obvious.”

“And I’m sorry about Dorian. I knew you really liked him. It sucks this had to happen and break you up.”

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, glaring at the floor. I had told the lie to everyone else that Dorian broke up with me because of Peter’s big reveal, rather than the truth, which would probably been a little harder to swallow. “If he falls so easily over rumors and hearsay, then I doubt it would’ve worked out in the long run.”

I still wasn’t over it, by the way. Not that I particularly blamed Dorian, since Eddie had a way of saying things that made you believe whatever he said, but I started to wonder if maybe he had a point. Did I really ruin everything I touched? I certainly didn’t mean to — or maybe that was half the problem. Did it just mean I was selfish? Did I not care as much as I should?

Or maybe I just didn’t deserve that kind of relationship at all. Maybe I was better off this way, alone.

I didn’t know. It bugged me, and it bugged me that Eddie had managed to wedge another uncertainty into my life. I just couldn’t win, could I?

“...and Eddie’s got his job back at ESU,” Gwen was still talking, and it was just then that I finally dropped back down into the present. “It’s so nice to have everyone working there again and —”

“Whoa, what?” I shook my head, startled by the information. “Eddie’s working? At Dr. Connor’s lab?”

“Yeah, didn’t Peter tell you?”

No, he didn’t, although least to say we’d both been pretty preoccupied with what had happened recently. Still, it was _Eddie_ , and he was kind of top priority right now. I wondered what he was doing back there. The Connors offering his job back was one thing, but I didn’t expect him to take it; Eddie was kind of vindictive that way. I was sure he was up to something.

(I mean, when _wasn’t_ he?)

I played it off for Gwen’s benefit. “Maybe it slipped his mind. He’s been hounded by reporters left and right whenever he’s not in school, so I imagine he’s pretty busy.”

“Oh, yeah, they caught us outside of the lab,” Gwen chuckled, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as her eyes went dreamy at the thought. “Peter managed to get us away, and we hid in the rock sculpture garden. You know, Peter can be a real hero when he wants to be...”

“Yeah, he’s a real charmer that way,” I said curtly, not appreciating her tone of voice, the sickly sweetness. Well, Gwen definitely wasn’t over Peter, that’s for sure. I really didn’t like talking about my cousin like this. It felt weird and gross. “Look, I gotta head to class. Catch you later, okay?”

“Oh, right, sure,” Gwen jolted, returning from her daze and offering me an apologetic smile. “Hopefully this whole craze ends soon, right?”

“...right.”

 

* * *

 

 

I was stupid enough to believe that was the worst Eddie had to offer.

Once again, I had caught myself staying too late at the library; I had been studying for a test, and found that the best place to work was at my old stomping grounds, where it was quiet and no one with microphones or cameras could find me. That that anyone _would_. No one seemed to notice me when Peter or someone else more important was involved.

I forgot that it got dark early. It wasn’t even five o’ clock and already the street lights were on and the sky a dark purple shade, a yellow sheen of light pollution hanging above the skyscrapers. Knowing I was going to be in trouble for missing curfew, I tried the metro only to find my card was expired and the ticket maker was out of order. Perfect, just perfect. The next station was over ten blocks away — the time it’d take to walk there would be the same amount of time it’d take to get me from here to Aunt May’s.

Then I tried to hail a taxi, only to see that everyone taller and louder than me got them. Frustrated, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and started making my way south, hoping to find a bus stop that would take me to Queens. Hopefully I could catch one before it was too late, and there would be no news vans waiting for me at home.

Only, as I found myself walking in Hell’s Kitchen, I was very much alone. At least, publicly — about ten minutes in I became aware that I was being followed.

Considering there were so few people on the sidewalks right now, it was easy to recognize him. I first saw him smoking outside the library, then again when I came up the stairs from the underground station. I hadn’t noticed him at first because I figured he was waiting for someone, but now I had no doubts that someone was me.

I didn’t recognize him in the least. He certainly had a thuggish look about him, five days unshaven, a leather jacket, and a black eye. I was downwind, and I could smell the beer wafting off of him. Was he drunk? What did he want with me?

I picked up my pace a little — the guy was over fifty feet behind me, and if he tried to keep up, I’d hear it.

And I did. Actually, I heard another set of footsteps join his, and when I glanced behind me a second time, I was startled to discover _two_ more guys had joined the first one. And this time I could see strange bulges in their jackets.

I turned back around, hunching my shoulders and ducking my head against the chilly wind. The lampposts came in short intervals, and those pauses of darkness felt terrible long. I dodged from one to the other, feeling protected under the buzzing yellow light — until I had to leave it again, or else let those men get closer.

And they were getting closer. My feet were numb in their sneakers and I had forgotten to bring my hat. I made do with my hood, but it didn’t do as much as I hoped it would.

Cars would pass by, and sometimes I felt like reaching out, wanting them to see that I needed help. Maybe a Good Samaritan would see that I was being stalked by some very large, very brutish older dudes and get me the hell out of here. I certainly didn’t want to fight them, not out in the open like this.

Were they here about Peter? Did they think they could hurt Spider-Man because they thought I was related to him? Because I _was_.

I wondered how I could defend myself without completely blowing my cover. One man, I could deal with easily. But three or more? That was pushing it. Especially considering I was wearing my sling right now. If I had any witnesses, or if they blabbed to the police (and they probably would), I was screwed.

The buildings loomed dark and silent over me, like stoic onlookers waiting for the worst to happen. Darkened windows and barred glass only added to the feeling of how unwelcome I was here, in my own neighborhood.

It was just my luck that it started to rain. February, and somehow New York was getting freezing ice and sleet pouring on its streets. I was soaked almost instantly, my puffy jacket no match against the wet, heavy, suffocating chill that was this awful rain. Even the front of my hair was getting wet, dripping into my face and partially obscuring my vision.

My fingers were numb and the toes of my shoes kept catching on every edge and crack. My nose stung with bitter bold, and my ears had to be bright red now. Where was that stupid bus stop? Did I miss it on accident?

The three men were getting closer, less than thirty feet now. Did they even care that they were being obvious now? Did anyone else notice?

When that distance narrowed to twenty feet, I decided to act. There was no way I was getting jumped by them; there was no way I was letting them have the advantage.

Thirty seconds after my last shoulder check, I clenched my fists and broke into a run. My heart skipped into action as I nearly slipped on the now-slippery concrete before I caught traction and tore down the street.

There was a startled yell behind me before the other three men gave chase. I took pride in the fact that I was faster and lighter than them, but I wasn’t sure how long I could last like this. My stomach grumbled for food, and my agility would be limited by my sling.

Of course, such thoughts of jumping fences or leaping over cars were dashed when two more men appeared at the end of the block — one with a crowbar, the other a bat — as though they had been waiting for me. Maybe they had. They thought they could trap me.

I gasped, swerving instantly to my right onto the nearest street.

Only, I discovered to my dismay, it wasn’t a street; it was an alley. And not just any alley, but a dead end.

No fire escape. No way out.

I skidded to a stop, my heels kicking up gravel as my arms wind-milled, trying to keep my balance. My heart stopped, leaping into my throat. “No, no, no!”

Whirling around, I faced the five now crowding the entrance to the alleyway — every one of them wielding one weapon or another. For a brief moment, I was glad, because none of them had guns. But it was a small mercy at best.

I could've fought. I could've thrown them across the street. But I didn't, because I was Amy, and Amy isn't strong, she doesn't fight crime. Any aggressive act I made would be misinterpreted and used as evidence against Amy, as solid proof that I was Falcon.

In a moment of clarity, I understood what it might be like to be a celebrity a politician. To have my every move analyzed, criticized, and twisted into a weapon against me. Like nothing I could do, nothing I could say would be right. Especially not now. No one here wanted to learn my half of the story (lies not with standing).

“You know, when I heard that you were still alive, I couldn’t believe it,” the lead man chuckled, leaving me absolutely confused. Me, alive? Doi. “That Fletcher woman, snatched right out her home, and the girl, thrown out a window. Gotta admit, little disappointed the fall didn’t kill you. Because this is gonna hurt a lot more, and it won’t be quick.”

“I-I have no idea what you’re t-talking about,” I said, my teeth chattering in the cold. I hugged my arms, trying to rub some warmth back into them. If I had to fight, I might as well be on my best terms.

Still, the fear in my chest was stronger than anything I had ever felt in my life. Who told him this? Did they actually think I was dead before? I mean, maybe that explained why the Rose never came after me, but still...I just thought I had gotten off lucky.

Maybe I was wrong.

"The Rose don’t like survivors," a second man growled, smacking the end of his baseball bat in his hand. I couldn't decide if it if it was a good thing or not that it was wood instead of metal. Either way, it would hurt. "Better it ends this way before the top man finds out. He’d be pretty upset to learn that the job weren’t done right the first time around. It’d just be worse for you, sweetheart.”

"Whoa, what?" I said, shaking my head and holding out my hands in surrender. They were getting a lot closer now, and I had to keep stepping back to keep my distance. Still, it wasn’t enough. “Please, I’m not who you think I am! I’m just lost! I don’t even live here!”

“Nu-uh,” one of them shook their head. “That guy, he showed us a picture of youse. And guess what, it’s an exact match! Wanna see?”  
  
He pulled something out of his pocket, flicked it to me. I managed to catch it while still backing away; the image was blurry and not easily seen in the dark, but I could make out the features well enough. It was me, a candid shot, in the library I was just in. It couldn’t have been taken more than an hour ago.

Someone had been watching me. But who? I hadn’t even noticed anyone.

And yet, the answer was already there, waiting.

Eddie Brock.

My fists, shaking with cold and fear and helpless rage, clenched around the photo, crumpling it as my eyes slid up, back to the Rose thugs.

Unbelievable. Eddie sold me out! I didn’t even _know_ I had been safe, but I couldn’t even have that; now he wanted me dead.

Huh. Well, guess that explained why he didn’t tell the _Bugle_ about me. He wanted me to die, a Nobody, just another statistic for the cops to count at the end of the year.

That was cold. Real cold. And brilliant; I couldn’t figure out a way how it would be exposed if his plan went the way it should. Me and my mom would just vanish off the face of the Earth, completely wiped out, and there wouldn’t be enough people left to wonder where we went, or who took us.

Still, that didn’t mean I was just going to lie down and die. “You gotta believe me, this is just a big mistake!”

The guy with the baseball bat, who I nicknamed the Jock because of the bat he had, just laughed. He swung the stick, like he was pantomiming a major league hit, or maybe bashing my head in. “Oh yeah? Because photos don’t lie, sweetheart. You tellin’ me you have an evil twin you don’t know about?”

I stumbled back when the Jock tried to take a swing at me. My foot caught on a bottle or something rolled, my whole body slipping out from underneath me.

I cried out, falling back on my hands. The bitter rain and freezing pavement bit into my skin, a jolt like electricity shooting up my arms and down my back; simultaneously, a realization hit me.

I was on the ground. I was weak. I was going to die.

_Oh, no._

A single light planted over a back exit gave scant light to the area. I had fallen just inside it, and got a nice gander at the faces of the men about to attack me. All of them, ugly and scarred, and not a hint of compassion or mercy in those beady eyes, the smiles slicked with icy rain, like they couldn’t even feel it.

One of them laughed at my clumsiness. The rest smirked, like Christmas just hit twice in one year. There was a rise in energy and they suddenly converge, getting close before I can get up. My breath left my throat. For the first time in my since I became Falcon, I was scared of the average man. He could hurt me, if he wanted to, and I couldn't protect myself in the way I wanted to.

The Jock sneered at me. "You know, I kind of hoped you’d put up more of a fight. Anyone who could survive a fall like that’s gotta be tough, right? But I guess you’re just another sniveling, whiny bitc— _oof!_ "

A shadow dropped out of nowhere, landing directly on top of the Jock and swallowing him whole in darkness.

The other four jumped away in alarm, turning on the shadow as it stood. It separated from the unmoving form of the Jock. It took on the shape of a man, silhouetted under the heavy lamplight. The four goons exchanged looks of shock, before gaping at the newcomer. Instantly, I could tell it was a man - or looked like one - as clearly defined by his broad shoulders and tapered waist, and so much better built than any of the other men here.

There were several very startling things about this man (other than his dramatic entrance). Some might find the scarlet color of his suit rather unusual, or the fact that he wielded a baton in each hand. The water slid off him like he was covered in wax, frictionless and bizarre. It was like he wasn't even real. But it was his smallest feature that caught my attention.

Two little horns, atop a featureless skull.

"H-holy shit!" One of the men gasped, stumbling back at the demonic sight. "I-it's him! It's the Devil!"

The Mechanic scoffed. "Devil? That ain't the -"

_Whap!_

Fast as a viper, the man -— Devil? — Flicked his arm out. His baton struck the Mechanic across the jaw. The man's whole head snapped to the left and he crumpled, instantly dazed.

A stunned silence fell over the scene.

And then everyone as moving at once.

I watched in horror as the Devil — my savior? Holy hell, talk about irony — was suddenly charged by four very large, very scary guys, all armed with bigger weapons than him. The nearest one, with a metal pipe, was about to bring it over his head.

The Devil sidestepped, so quick he was just a blur. Inhumanly fast, it was almost as if he knew their moves before they made them. The man with the pipe fell, overcompensating when his blow missed and he let out a startled cry as he landed flat on his face.

The Devil brought up both batons, making an X that caught the incoming crowbar of the next thug.

Then in a move too fast to catch, the Devil twisted the weapon from the Mechanic's hands and spun him around, hitting him twice in the process.

The Devil looked like he was going to finish off the Mechanic, but instead whipped around in a roundhouse kick, catching the Plumber in the chest and sending him flying back into a nearby wall. I yelped, bringing up my arms and scrambling out of the way when he came within inches of landing on me.

The Plumber didn't even have the time to pick up his weapon before the Devil knocked him unconscious.

The Mechanic came back around, dazed but still on his feet. He raised his fists as if he was going Mano-e-Mano with the Devil, but he didn't stand a chance.

Without even turning his head, the Devil brought up his fist, slamming the butt of his weapon into the Mechanic's face. The man was sent reeling, clutching his face and uttering guttural cries.

The Devil turned on the Carpenter and his measly weapon. The Carpenter, last to act, yelped when he faced the voiceless opponent. He clutched his hammer in between his hands, holding it before him almost in prayer as he dropped to his knees. Blubbering, the man begged, "P-please, don't hurt me. I love my mother! I repent. I repent!"

The Devil tilted his head, looking down at the Carpenter, as if considering whether or not to finish him as well.

He didn't get the chance to decide.

The Jock had returned his feet — being of greater fortitude than his compatriots, he merely wiped some blood off his face and straightened. His baseball bat had rolled away, but that didn't seem to occur to the Jock when he sneaked up on the Devil. He raised his fists, ready to strike.

"Hey!" I shouted, ruining his element of surprise.

The Devil whirled around, caught off guard. The Jock didn’t miss a beat — his fist connected with the Devil’s face as he turned around.

I expected him to fall, for the Jock to get the advantage and win — but the Devil’s footing didn’t even shift upon impact. He took the blow without even flinching, before rolling his neck and turning his face back to the Jock; the thug looked just as stunned as I felt.

The Jock hesitated for only a split second — then he was a flurry of fists, like a boxer trying to get a hit in. But the Devil was faster, his head twisting away to avoid the first blow and his forearm coming up to block the next. He continued to deflect the next few attacks, not making a sound while the Jock was grunting and snarling, growing more frustrated as his assault proved fruitless.

It took a few good blows of the baton to the head and chest for the Jock to realize it was going to take a lot more force than a (granted, a very powerful) punch to faze this guy, the Jock threw his whole body at the Devil, who was too close to dodge.

Instead, the man ducked, taking the force of the Jock's gut on his shoulders, before lifting with his knees and flipping the Jock over his back. The Jock went flying, launched with incredible force into the air, his own momentum used against him. The man landed so hard it made me wince in sympathy.

And yet, he still wasn’t down. The Jock, woozy and beat-up all over the place, spit out blood before making to get up again. “Gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of —”

_Wham!_

The Devil didn’t even wait to hear the whole spiel before bringing both batons down on the Jock’s head. The thug collapsed, his whole body going slack.

A wail pierced the air. The Devil looked up, just as the Carpenter scrambled to his feet, dropping his hammer and taking off in a terrified sprint. He slipped in a puddle before tearing out the alley and disappearing from sight.

Then the streets were silent, with nothing but the sound of rainfall to fill the space.

I was breathing hard — just _watching_ the beat-down was anxiety-inducing. I had no idea what to expect from this man that rescued me.

If that was even his intention at all. I still had plenty of reservations, no thanks to that hellish outfit of his. Maybe he just took these guys out so he could deal with me alone.

He seemed to remember he was not alone and turned to me. I froze, still lying on the ground. Who was this guy? What did he want from me? Did he think I was Falcon? Was he a hero or a villain?

Still caught up in my own thoughts, I almost didn’t notice when he started approaching me. But then he got too close, extending a hand, and I flinched away.

He frowned. His mask didn’t cover the lower half of his face and his nose was bleeding from taking the Jock’s hit. So not a Devil, then. A human being.

Then he spoke with a soft voice that was the exact opposite of what a Devil should sound like: “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

I didn’t know why, but I believed him. Perhaps it was the fact he just saved my life; or his voice, which wasn’t as scary as I imagined, sounded sincere, kind actually, even apologetic. So after a moment’s hesitation, I took his hand and let him help me up. “W-who are you? How did you know I needed help?

“They had been following you for three blocks. I didn’t think they were here for a tea party,” he replied as though it were obvious. I mean, I _knew_ , but I hadn’t expected anyone else to get involved. I still wanted to know why _he_ did. “It isn’t safe to be out on the streets at night.”

“Says the guy dressed up as a demon.”

There was a soft snort from his direction. “I try to match the environment.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” I crossed my arms, edging away from him. Not just because his appearance still unnerved me, but because I remembered I was still shy, human Amy, who would be intimidated by this guy who just took out three overgrown thugs. Not Falcon, who got sarcastic as a defense mechanism and exchanged banter. “Why did you save me?”

He tilted his head at me, as if he didn’t understand the question. “This is my neighborhood. I don’t tolerate _their_ kind here,” he motioned towards the fallen thugs with a dismissive flick of his baton. “They’re a plague on the city, one I intend to scourge. And there will be more. Do you have a safe place to stay, away from here?”

“Uh...” I thought of Aunt May and Peter, all the way in Forest Hills. I didn’t even know if I could get there now — I was definitely in trouble now, no changing that. But I didn’t want to make the trek there. It was just too long, too dangerous. Too predictable.

Eddie could find me there.

The thought was terrifying and I eliminated the option immediately. There was no way I was going back to Aunt May’s when Eddie was siccing Rose goons on me. With the strict intent to kill, no less! I couldn’t risk her life like that. But where else could I go? The only other places I could think of were Gwen’s, Harry’s and my own, but Eddie knew all of those, and there was no doubt in my mind he’d hurt my friends, too, if it meant he got what he wanted.

I had no one left to turn to.

_Except..._

There was _just one_ person left. One I hadn’t considered until this exact moment, but had been floating around in the back of my mind since December.

A brownstone in the Village, that not even Spider-Man knew about.

I didn’t even know if I was welcome there, if I was allowed to go back. But it was my only option now. I had settled on it before I could convince myself otherwise.

With a final, somewhat uncertain sigh, I said, “...yeah, yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” the man nodded, appeased. I still couldn’t get over the fact I was getting approval from a guy with horns. “Hell’s Kitchen isn’t the place for you.”

I would’ve laughed if he didn’t sound so serious. But he was right; I didn’t belong here. I shouldn’t _be_ here. I was just a kid, living on her own in a bad neighborhood. These things were bound to happen eventually — I really didn’t want to deal with it again. “Yeah, I suppose.”

I was just turning to leave when I remembered something. “Wait! You still didn’t tell me who you are.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man replied, almost mumbling, edging closer to the street.

“Come on!” I said. It wasn’t every day a mysterious superhero saved _me_. There were too many nameless personages on the streets that I considered myself lucky to even have a name for some of them. “Just give me an alias, a calling card, something!”

The orange glow of the only light in this alleyway passed over his face and I froze, my blood running cold. His mask, the same color of his suit, covered his head. But there were no holes where there should be.

This man had no eyes.

He gave me a knowing smile. “Call me the Man Without Fear.”


	22. De Profundis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a particular song I think really catches the feeling of the relationship/scenes between Bruce and Amy. It's What Would You Do by Bastille. The lyrics/narrative don't necessarily have anything to do with the story I have, but I feel the music and chorus capture the atmosphere very well. It's kind of sad and full of regret, and second guessing of oneself, but it's also filled with compassion and the desire to do good, and be a better person. The two characters in the song kind of match Amy and Bruce, at least their voices/morals. It just seems to fit, to me.
> 
> It'd be the song that played in the background during an emotional, no dialogue scene or montage, if it was on TV or in a movie.
> 
> Idk, that's just my opinion. If you haven't heard it, check it out. I personally enjoy the song, it's kind of heart-breaking, at least to me.
> 
> I'd find songs for every chapter, or every episode, but I have a hard enough time trying to find a fitting chapter title in Latin. Ugh.
> 
> Anyways, sorry for the long A/N, I just had a lot to share. On to the story!

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**De Profundis**

* * *

 

 

 

There came a knock at the door.

Two small knocks, a third added a second later, like an afterthought. It echoed through the dark, empty house. The freezing rain pouring outside almost drowned out the sound.

Bruce sat in his office, reading an old book on his desk. He had been staring at the same page for the past twenty minutes. Cold coffee sat nearby, half-full and forgotten. Dull gray light filtered through the windows, and his lamp flickered under the threat of the storm.

The knock jolted him out of his reverie. The glasses slipped off his head and bounced onto his nose, turning the already meaningless words blurry in front of him. He couldn't even remember what the book had been about.

He looked around, expecting to hear more knocks, or a doorbell, but none came. Bruce got up with a groan (he had been hunched over in a mindless stupor for far too long) before shuffling out the office. All the lights were off in the house, rendering the house in almost complete darkness. It might have been haunting, but Bruce knew the scariest thing in this house was only himself.

Heading towards the door, Bruce saw a shadow shifting behind the window curtains, before disappearing from sight. He sped up a little, wondering who it was. Normally he shouldn't have been too curious, but he hadn't spoken to a live person in over three days. The other four he spent in a hectic Emergency Room, and that wasn't really a place to hold a conversation.

He opened the inner door just as the knocker left his steps. All huddled up and with only a thin hoodie for cover, she was soaking wet under the heavy sheets of slushy rain. It was obviously a girl, from the size and shape of her body, but he had yet to see her face under the hood. Really, not a person who belonged on his doorstep and someone Bruce would have to turn away, if only to avoid the last disaster that occurred after letting strange people sleep on his couch.

"Wait!" Bruce said, despite himself, and the girl came to a stop. "Who are you?"

"Sorry, wrong address." She mumbled, not turning around.

But he recognized the voice. It’d be impossible not to. It would seem even more impossible that she was here, standing in front of him again, of her own free will.

He should have let her go. Bruce knew better than to perpetuate this bad behavior, of getting too attached to people (especially the kind that was angry at him). What good could come from any of this?

Yet he asked, "Why are you here?"

The girl didn't reply right away. But she didn't leave, either. She just stood there, enduring the weather. Her shoulders were trembling from the effort.

"My old place isn't safe anymore." Her reply almost startled him, soft and nearly drowned out by the rain. "I didn't know where else to go."

"So this was the first place you thought of?" Bruce asked, skeptical. After what happened, he figured this to be the last place she'd ever return to. The situation must be pretty bad if she was desperate enough to come here. He wasn't sure what to make of it.

She ducked her head, and let out a harsh laugh. It was short lived. "Right, I forgot. You prefer to live alone. Just forget it."

The girl started heading for the curb.  

"S-Stop." Bruce had to keep himself from throwing the door open and go after her. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. _Keep it together, Banner._ His desire to make things right was making him think rashly.

But when he opened his eyes, the girl was looking back. Her face was hidden under the hood, blond tendrils dripping over her nose. He wanted to say she seemed better since initial recovery; but to be honest the girl looked like a drowned rat. She was not doing herself any favors by staying out in this weather.

It was the expression in her face, though. Guarded, but hopeful. And not an iota of hate. Ugh, Smoke was right. He was getting soft.

He opened the door, beleaguered with himself. "Come inside."

 

* * *

 

 

“So, tell me what happened.”    

He sat opposite her, on the coffee chair, leaning on his knees and clasping his hands together. The girl had been quiet so far, only giving monosyllabic answers to his questions.

The girl sat huddled on the couch, blanket draped over her head and shoulders like a hermit, with a mug of hot chocolate ( _not_ coffee —the last thing she needed right now was an energy spike). She took a sip, swallowed, and waited several long seconds before she answered.

"I was heading home," she said, closing her eyes inhaling through her nose. She released it in a sigh. "A guy was following me. I thought I could lose him, but then a bunch more showed up. They were...they were waiting for me. I could've fought them, but I didn't want to risk - I didn't want to risk showing who I really was. So I ran. Only I ended up in a dead-end alley."

In the dim lighting, Bruce could see lesions across her hands, like she might've fallen. One of the knees in her jeans was ripped, showing bloody skin underneath.

"What did you do?" he asked, voice soft, watching her carefully. The girl didn't seem to be hiding anything, but he was very curious how she got out of that situation without more injuries.

The girl wiped some hair from her face, a weak smile passing her lips before fading again. "Nothing. I couldn't do anything. They all had weapons - a crowbar, a bat, a wrench - and they were just about to attack me when...when someone saved me."

"Spider-Man?"

"No, no." the girl laughed a little. "I would've known if it was Spider-Man. But this guy - he just dropped out of nowhere. Completely silent, totally fearless. It was the Devil."

He blinked. "Like...Satan?"

"No. I mean, I don't think so. It was a guy in a red suit, with horns on his head, so I'm pretty sure that was on purpose. He had these sticks and he moved so fast," the girl seemed focused on something else, her gaze distance as she held out her hands. "It was amazing. He followed us, he knew I was in trouble, and he jumped in at the last moment. Then he was gone. And he had no eyes."

"He had - he was blind?" Bruce shook his head, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them with the hem of his shirt, before stuffing them back on his face and making sure the girl in front of him was very, very real. "Then how did he-?"

"Hell if I know," the girl just shrugged. "He really doesn't like criminals though. Called them a 'scourge' on society. Pretty wild stuff. And then he disappeared, like Batman or something."

"And you didn't ask for a name?"

She gave him a look of annoyance. Bruce almost smirked back, but smothered it when she said, "Well, of course! But he didn't give me one. He just said that he was the Man Without Fear. Which is fitting, I guess. What blind guy goes into a fight like that? And _wins_?"

"He must be abnormal, like u-you," He said, nearly saying 'us' but backtracking at the last second. He cleared his throat and switched his gaze to the table, hoping the girl didn't pick up on it.

But she seemed far too preoccupied to pick up on any of his stutterings. "Yeah, I think so, too. There's no way he's just some regular Joe Schmoe. Maybe he has, like, echolocation or something. Or maybe even a radar sense, like I do."

"Radar sense?" he threw her a curious frown. This was entirely new information to Bruce. What the hell was a radar sense?

"Well, you know how Spider-Man has a Spidey Sense?" the girl asked, gesticulating with her hand as though it were obvious. But the look on Bruce's face must've been clear he had no idea what _that_ was, either, so she just rolled her eyes and sighed. "Okay, never mind. My radar sense, essentially, works like a 3-D scan of a room, in my head. I can sense where everything is mentally, without needing my eyes or my ears. It's psychic, I guess, which is why I compared it to Spider-Man's."

"Spider-Man has psychic powers?" Bruce felt so out of the loop. He didn't think he'd ever asked this many questions before, especially not to someone half his age.

"Well, pre-cognitive," the girl specified with one raised finger, surprising Bruce that she actually knew what that meant. "He can sense danger before it happens and avoid it in time, if he acts fast enough. Which he can, thanks to his super-fast spider reflexes."

"So, what, so he's not Spider-Man just because he just likes spiders?" Bruce had to admit, he wasn't sure what would compel anyone to take on that kind of mantle. It was just a little too creepy for him. "I thought he did it because people are afraid of spiders?"

"No, he was -" The girl stopped herself, apparently realizing this was information she was privy to that Bruce was not allowed to know, then shook her head and rectified, "Let's just say it was a random lab accident and suddenly some random geek in New York City suddenly has all the abilities and powers of a genetically-mutated spider, okay?"

He scratched his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of crazy blind guys fighting crime. How does she even _meet_ all these people? Even _him_. "Uh, all right. So, what, do all superheroes end up in lab accidents before they get their powers, or is that just a...Spider-Man thing?"

Bruce was about to say the Hulk, but decided against it. He felt it was too specific to mention, and after the big green guy ripped Harlem apart last spring, he doubted the girl would consider him a hero in any sense of the word (even if he _was_ trying to stop the Abomination, but that was confidential).

"I don't know. Wasn't exactly my case, although I'm sure a science lab was involved somewhere down the line," she said. "I don't know about the Devil - maybe he was, too, but I feel as though I would've heard something in the news if there was some weird accident. But I don't know. I guess I'll just have to find him again."

"What?" Bruce jolted in surprise. Was she kidding? "I don't think so."

"Excuse me?"

He stood up, as if to show authority (yeah, like she'd react well to _that_ ), but really it was concern, and a level of sternness along with it. Bruce pointed out the window, as though the danger was right outside. "You've just told me that there are men out there who are looking for you —- specifically _you_ —- and you want to go-go back out there? You already know you can't fight them. What-what's going on in your head that somehow j-just overlooks all of that?"

The stuttering kind of negated his message, but Bruce couldn't help his nervous tics.

But the girl didn't laugh or make fun of him. She just stared up at him, her shoulders hunching underneath the blanket. "I don't know.  I mean, there's already two other heroes on the streets —"

"They're not always going to be there for you! You got lucky once. Considering how your luck usually goes," he motioned to her shoulder, and she shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think you'll be walking away the next time."

Bruce winced in preparation for a wave of anger from the girl, who no doubt would react badly to his criticism, to the way he was trying to force her mind. This was a girl with no parents, no home, and no responsibilities to anyone but herself —- up to this point, he knew and expected her to be irrational, single-minded, and perhaps a little bit selfish.

“Yeah, and why do you care?” she scowled, falling back in the seat and crossing her arms defensively, just like the teenage delinquent she was. “You made it pretty damn clear last time you wanted nothing to do with my business.”

“Because —” he cut himself off, huffing when he couldn’t come up with as quick an answer as he wanted. Or he couldn’t admit the truth.

Bruce had tried his best to forget about the girl — but the harder he tried, the more worried he got. He wasn’t sure what about all this just begged his concern and energy, but he couldn’t take it back now.

Maybe it was because Bruce saw a little of himself in the girl. Her underestimated intelligence, the unassuming appearance, the feeling of always being miscalculated and unappreciated and pushed aside and forgotten. Of pretending not to care while caring too much. The desire to prove yourself, to prove everyone wrong, and going too far.

Bruce could see the path she was walking on, so similar to his own, how it was so terribly close to tragedy. He sometimes wished he had been someone who was there for him when he was younger, that would’ve kept him safe and down-to-earth, but he didn’t and now look where he was.

The girl may not appreciate it, but Bruce was not about to let history repeat itself.

But he wasn’t about to reveal the fact that he was just another bleeding-heart in a city full of the heartless.

Eventually Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, entirely frustrated with himself. “Apparently I just can’t help myself, and not for lack of trying either. I just don’t like trouble.”

The girl just raised an eyebrow, looking about as baffled as he felt. "Well, for someone who doesn't like getting involved in trouble, you sure have a funny way of going about it."

He dropped his arms, almost disappointed by her reaction. Bruce almost wished she was still angry at him, as much as he didn’t like it. Perhaps it was the only way she’d leave again, and the last shred of his logical side was begging for it to happen. "Well, I _would_ , except that no matter what I do, you seem to have the ever-so-endearing tendency of clawing your way back into my life. And I suppose these are just the consequences. So kudos. You have no one to blame but yourself."

He sank back into his seat, rubbing his hands over his face, glad to finally have that off his chest. Granted, it wasn’t _all_ that Bruce had wanted to say, but he had been keeping this in for over a month. The pressure had been maddening, and he glad to finally vent with the object of all his consternation. This girl was going to be the death of him.

Amazingly, the girl’s demeanor softened, to the point of being rueful. “Sorry. I don’t usually barge into people’s lives like this. And I don’t exactly have the greatest communication skills, either.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

She made a face at his sarcasm. “You know, for an old guy, you’re pretty sassy.”

“Old?” he squinted at her through his glasses. “That’s sure something, coming from a girl who looks like a twelve-year-old.”

“I don’t look twelve!” she snapped, failing to maintain the same level as cool as he did.

“Relax, I’m just teasing,” Bruce had to keep himself from laughing, in case it angered her further. She did _not_ have very thick skin — luckily her toughness could back her up when her confidence couldn’t.

The girl deflated, but she didn’t look quite mollified. “Yeah, well, you suck at it.”

There was a pause of silence, where the girl’s eyes wandered, her expression falling flat once more. Bruce was starting to think this was the look she had whenever she was in deep thought. Then, after a moment, she asked, “So, is this official or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really want to help me?” she asked, looking at him again. This time, there was no humor, no anger or annoying impertinence. Just her solid gray eyes meeting his brown, unafraid and entirely serious. “Because, just FYI, there’s stuff I have to do alone. Good intentions are nice, but there are too many things I can’t risk. You said you don’t want trouble? Because my life is full of it, and you’re probably gonna end up in some of it, too.”

“I know. I understand. But there’s going to be things I have to know. If I ask you a question, any question, will you promise to answer me honestly?”

The girl hesitated. “No.”

Bruce nodded to himself. He expected that from her, although he was disappointed nonetheless. “Not even about where you go, or what you do?”

“I...” the girl bit her lip, considering her answer. “I mean, I don’t - I don’t know.”

“Your family? Or even just your school.”

Her mouth closed. The girl shook her head ever so slightly, a move that seemed to be an unconscious reaction than anything else.

“Not even your name?” he tried, peering at her hopefully. “Just something, please.”

The girl frowned, then looked away. She remained silent.

Bruce sighed, hanging his head. Was this what it was like for parents working with a difficult child? How could he convince her to speak about things that she didn’t want to, but were clearly much more important than her personal feelings? This was a girl whose life was in constant danger — danger that she seemed to _put_ herself in.

This was not the kind of stress Bruce was going to take on willingly without help from her. He was not going to be left treading water while she always disappeared without a word. This was especially important; if patching up her injuries was going to be a common activity, then Bruce wouldd certainly like to know all the details, and not whatever half-truths she came up with just to appease him.

“I can’t demand you to tell me what’s going on,” the doctor finally said, lacing his fingers together on his lap, attention divided between them and the girl. Her gaze was almost intimidating and he didn’t want to come off too forceful, and scare her away. “But I’m asking you to. I can’t just sit here, pretending everything’s all right, and waiting for a girl who might never get...home.”

He winced inwardly. That was too much. He said too much. Maybe he was misinterpreted it, or had taken her presence her for granted. He had gotten comfortable with caring for a displaced, forsaken child. Well, she didn’t _act_ like a child, but still. He had never directly discussed her stay here before; the meanings, the rules, etc - so he had no idea how she really felt about it, or wanted him to think of it.

The girl’s eyes widened, as surprised as he felt, before looking down, hands rising to hide her face. She didn’t say anything.

His heart sank. He knew it— it was too much. He had scared her off. It wouldn’t bother him so much if he hadn’t made himself so vulnerable. Of course, the only person he had to blame was himself. He should’ve known better. Had he actually thought rationally, like he promised himself, _commanded_ himself, this wouldn’t have happened —

“My name is Amelia.”

“What?” Bruce looked up, blinking rapidly, not quite sure if he heard right, or if his mind was playing tricks on him.

But the girl was looking back at him. She seemed mildly annoyed. “I am not ‘girl’. So stop calling me that.”

“Amelia? That’s your name?”

She rolled her eyes. The girl — Amelia, he supposed — seemed somewhat uncomfortable when he said the name, but he chalked it up to the fact it was merely another secret revealed. “I’m not going to lie about that. It’s just a first name. But that’s all you’re going to get.”

“That’s fine,” He actually smiled at that. Bruce didn’t need her last name. This was enough.

“On that note, am I allowed to call you Doctor Banner or is that weird?”

Bruce did a double-take, surprised she even knew his last name. Weird did not even _begin_ to describe this. So startled was he that Bruce actually stood up, as if he were getting ready to run. He had done it so many times before; it was practically second-nature by now. “H-how did you find out?”

He was immediately terrified that Amelia had discovered the truth. That, somehow, she not only knew who he was, but _what_ he was.

“Uh, it’s the name on your degrees?” Amelia raised her eyebrows, apparently finding him overreacting. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, “In your office? Among other things, I can read, too.”

“Since when were you in my office?” Bruce demanded, wondering how the hell she had the time when he had been in the same room with her this entire time.

“Uh, the last time I was here. I couldn’t sleep at night sometimes. I walked around a bit.”

He frowned. “You snooped around my house?”

“Snoop is such an ugly word.” Amelia said, wrinkling her nose, although there was a joking edge to her voice. If she had discovered his true identity, he doubted that she would be so lighthearted.

“ _Right_ ,” he fixed her with a disapproving look, mostly to hide the feeling of embarrassment over the fact that he panicked over a complete non-issue. He had completely forgotten he had left those up there. Bruce didn’t usually have houseguests, so it wasn’t really something he worried about. “I can see why trouble has such an easy time finding you.”

Amelia actually smiled at that, as though he had just given her a compliment. "Aw, is that a compliment? I knew I liked you for some reason, despite everything. And now I know what it is."

"And what's that?" Bruce wasn't sure he was going to like it.

"Well, if I have to tell you," the girl's smile just grew wider. "Then how will you ever learn?"

Bruce stared at her, with hands on his hips, for one long, silent moment. Then he hooked his thumb out and said, "All right, time for bed."

And when Amelia started to lean back on the couch, he shook his head. "No, there's a guest bedroom upstairs. You might as well use it, if you're planning an extended stay. I want my couch back."

"Sweet!" Amelia practically launched herself off the couch, scampering up the stairs with far too much energy and familiarity of the house than Bruce thought was appropriate. How was she still not tired?

Not about to let her win this argument (because it certainly felt that way, no  matter what his rational mind told him), Bruce called up after all, "And just for the record, it's ' _Then_ you'll never learn' not ' _how_ will you ever learn'!"

But of course he didn't get the satisfaction he wanted of being right, because he heard the door slam a second later.

Bruce sighed, catching the railing with his hand and running the other through his hair. Great, not only was the girl back, but so was his headache. Good Lord, he had no self-restraint.

And yet, there was a strange lightness in his chest, a twitch in his jaw that begged to be a smile.


	23. Experto Crede

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**Experto Crede**

* * *

 

 

 

“Yo, is Matt Murdock here?” I asked, bursting through the door, trying not to look rushed and failing spectacularly. My hair was wild and sticking out of my hat in weird places, and my face was red from both the cold and my hectic Death Sprint.

Let’s just say that the distance between the Village to Hell’s Kitchen was one not made lightly. I decided not to tell the Doc that I almost got hit by three cars and a semi on the way here.

The blonde woman at the front desk jumped and blinked at me in confusion. She stopped tapping at her computer to stare at me, before pointing a hesitant finger at the door to the left. “Uh, he’s in there. Are you...a client? Oh, no, wait, I know who you are — you’re the new hire!”

“Uh,” I paused, hanging against the open door and glancing about the office uncertainly. It was a lot smaller than I imagined it to be. There were only two doors, to the only two offices. _Nelson & Murdock_ indeed. “Yes and no.”

“I-I don’t...” the woman pursed her lips, giving me a strange look. She was young, actually, younger than I thought she’d be. Maybe twenty-nine, thirty. Too pretty to be working in a place like this. “I don’t think we’re _allowed_ —”

“Who is it, Karen?” the door to the left opened, and out stepped Matt Murdock, his cane resting against his hip. He seemed comfortable here, as if he knew the area better and thus felt safer. Maybe he did. This was where he worked, after all.

“It’s, uh,” Karen faltered, throwing me a look when she remembered she didn’t have a name.

I realized that was my cue. I got off the door, letting it close behind me as I took a few steps towards Matt, who turned his head in the direction of the noise I was making. “It’s me, Amy. The-the Running Girl. Who, um, knocked you over.”

“ _Whoa, what_?” a muffled shout came, and with a loud _whoosh_ the opposite door flew open, and the other lawyer, Foggy Nelson popped out, floppy-haired and as slightly pudgy as ever. His eyes narrowed down on me instantly, and he pointed an accusing finger. “It’s you! I knew I recognized your voice! Wait, why were you talking to Matt? And _when_?”

“It was last week, at North Chapel,” Matt informed him with a tilt of his head, sounding as calm as ever. It was a nice change, considering how excitable Foggy was. “I offered her a job here, as an intern.”

“You _what_?” Foggy blurted, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe it. He stepped out into the main room, waving his hands all over the place. “Matt, you can’t just do that! You gotta communicate first! We can’t have known felons working for a law firm! It’s just not done!”

I frowned, doing a double-take. “Wha...I-I’m not a felon! I just — wait, is this still about hitting Matt?”

“Oh, she calls you _Matt_ now?” Foggy raised his eyebrows, pacing around Karen’s desk. She swiveled around in her chair, watching the whole thing with wide eyes and looking just as confused as I felt. Foggy placed a hand at his chest, affecting a look of hurt. “Have I been replaced as a best friend? Am I that disposable? Well, I never!”

Matt seemed to be having a hard time trying not to laugh in front of me. He raised a hand, trying to find Foggy, who placed himself underneath so he could be patted on the shoulder. “Foggy, you’re not being replaced. You’re the first name on the sign. Amy’s just here for the job offer. To be honest, I didn’t think you were going to accept it.”

I gave a weak smile. I hadn’t left the Doc’s house for three days, at his urging, to make sure that the air had cleared so I could move about safely again. I wasn’t too concerned with missing school, now with the massive amount of free time I had.

Calling Peter was also a requirement. I knew I was already in deep trouble for evading the curfew so early, but I’d rather be grounded for life than give Eddie any opportunity to hurt my family and friends.

That was also something we discussed. While I didn’t mention him to the Doc, since I didn’t have hard evidence of it, it was pretty obvious to me and Peter. Who _else_ would be so motivated to attack me like that? Who _else_ knew my secret identity and tried to twist it to their advantage?

Exactly.

I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Eddie or Venom since he confronted me on my date with Dorian, but I always had the creeping feeling that he was watching me, no matter where I was.

Even now.

It sent a shudder down my spine, making me shiver in a way that I hoped no one else noticed.

Foggy fixed me with a curious look, but amazingly he didn’t pick up on it.   
“You’re here for a job?”

“Um,” I said, biting my lip and leaning against the closed door to the office. This was going to be awkward. “Yes and no.”

Now it was Mat’s turn to frown at me. “What is it?”

“I need your help,” I said, clenching my fists and hoping that this wasn’t a big mistake. I never asked for help before, not like this. Was I exposing myself? Was I taking an unnecessary risk? Did this mean I couldn’t handle my own problems anymore?

I didn’t know. But there was something about Matt I liked, and I wanted to trust him.

With three adults staring at me, I was starting to feel a little self-conscious, so I quickly asked, “You guys have been watching the news, right?”

“Did you really just say that to a blind man?” Foggy asked, before he was elbowed by Matt. “What? It’s a joke.”

“Um, sorry?” I winced, then shrugged my shoulders. “Anyways, in case you didn’t know, my cousin’s just been accused of being Spider-Man and now I think I’m in danger.”

“Whoa, wait, you’re related to Peter Parker?” Karen asked, straightening in her seat, eyes going wide. “They have a special on it every night. Is it true?”

“Of course not!” I felt insulted that it had to be asked. Even if it was a lie, I had lived it so often that it was almost second nature by now to tell the false story. “But obviously no one believes us!”

“We believe you,” Matt said, earning looks of surprise from his coworkers.

“We do?” Foggy and Karen asked at the same time, exchanging looks with each other as though they thought their blind friend was crazy.

“Yes, we do,” Matt repeated, not even turning his head. “And stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” Foggy asked, all innocent.

“You know what,” Matt said, appearing to roll his eyes behind those red lenses. “I can _hear_ you looking at each other. Anyways, you were saying, Amy?”

“I, uh,” I shook my head, trying to get myself back on track, somewhat distracted by the little tangent in the conversation. “Well, as you can expect, Spider-Man’s made a lot of enemies, and I imagine quite a few want revenge. And if they think they know his real identity...well, it’s that much easier to hurt Spider-Man if you can hurt the people he cares about.”

Karen’s eyebrows shot up on her forehead, the first to look legitimately concerned where this conversation was going. “You were attacked?” she guessed, rather astutely.

“Yeah, a few nights ago.” I nodded. “These thugs cornered me in an alley. They tried to follow me home, but...I don’t know. Something weird happened. There was this crazy vigilante and...I don’t even know what happened next, it was just so crazy. And I’m afraid something like that might happen again. I was hoping you guys might help. I don’t know what to do. I know it’s not really a legal problem but... I didn’t know who else to go to.”

I couldn’t go to the police. Not when I knew they were corrupt, or at least enough that would make my life even harder than it already was. I couldn’t trust them to protect me the same way some small-time lawyers could, an office too small to be noticed, to be part of the mafia.

Matt remained silent for a moment, considering my plea, his lips set in a thin line of deep thought. Both Karen and Foggy watched him, waiting for the executive decision. Was I a client? Could I even be helped? Or was this a job better left to the more lawfully prepared?

Then he stepped back, gesturing towards the door of his office. “I think we should have a talk.”

 

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight,” Foggy said, holding up one finger as he flipped back through the pages of notes on his legal pad. “You were attacked by five men, who had been sent to attack you by some mysterious unknowns with a grudge against Spider-Man whom they believe is related to you, and then you were _saved_ by the _Devil_?”

Matt’s office was small, and the window was facing the alleyway, so there was very little natural lighting. Then again, I supposed he didn’t actually need it, but it was darker than I was used to. Foggy and Matt sat behind his desk, Foggy kind of on the edge with a legal pad, with me in the opposite chair, sitting on my hands and trying to get my thoughts in order.

“No, he just looked like him,” I said, waving my hand before he could turn that line into fact. “It was a costume, I think. It seems to be a thing now.”

“And you have no idea who this...Devil might be?” Matt asked, hesitating on the word as though it bothered him. Although his glasses hid his eyes, I felt as though he were looking straight through me, like he knew every thought I had.

It was disconcerting to say the least. “I have literally never even heard of him until this point, and then I saw that they had reportings of him on the news the other day. But I don’t really watch the news a lot, so maybe that’s just me.”  
  
“You think he might be someone you know?” Matt asked. I could hear him tapping his cane in concentration.

“I think I’d remember a guy with no eyes.”

“Right,” he almost smiled at this.

“So, you were attacked by some thugs and then saved by a vigilante,” Foggy returned to the topic at hand. “And you _didn’t_ call the police?”

I just realized how stupid I was. “...No.”

“Why?”

“Because I ran away. I was scared. I just wanted to get out of there.”

“But you never filled in a report or anything?”

I hesitated, concentrating on the plaque on Matt’s desk as I felt the burning gaze of two lawyers burrow into me. I didn’t want to tell them the truth, but at this point it seemed to be the only thing of value here. So I finally admitted, “I...I don’t trust the police.”

“Why?”

I threw Foggy an annoyed look. All these questions were really starting to get on my nerves (even if it _was_ my fault). “I have my reasons, okay? I don’t trust the police the same way you think aliens built the pyramids.”

“Oh, come on,” the blond man snorted, tossing his head in disbelief.

Matt glanced at his partner. “But you _do_ believe aliens built the pyramids.”

“ _Not_ the point,” Foggy raised his hand, scowling a little but not taking his eyes off of me. “If you ran away, how can you know if the men who attacked you got arrested?”

“Well, it was on the news the next morning. Maybe the Devil contacted them or something.”

“There weren’t any other witnesses?” Matt said, as if that’d be something I’d overlook.

“If there were, I sure as hell didn’t see them.”

“Well, this is just great,” Foggy said, dropping his pencil and pad on the desk and folding his arms. “There’s a Devil in Hell’s Kitchen and not even the police can stop him. And I thought Spider-Man was bad enough.”

“Hey, he saved my life!”

“What, out of the goodness of his own bedeviled heart?” Foggy rolled his eyes, rather unprofessionally, I might add. Did lawyers usually act like this, or was it just him?

“I don’t know, maybe!” I said, throwing up my hands helplessly. “I mean, he never asked me for anything! He didn’t even give me a name when I asked. I mean, if he _does_ work for someone, it’s probably the Rose. That seems like something they would do.”

“And what do _you_ know about the Rose?” Foggy demanded, looking rather amused by the idea that some teenager had any clue how super-secret mafias worked. “And why would the Italian mafia want anything to do with you?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. So I just stuffed my hands under my legs, hitching up my shoulders and staring at the ground. How was I supposed to explain something like that? He had a point, after all — the White Rose _shouldn’t_ have any interest in me. I had done nothing to them. My family was poor and had nothing to offer to them. And yet, the whole reason I was here was because of them.

“Amelia, why do I get the feeling you’re not being completely honest with me?”

My head jerked up. I stared at the blind man, a jolt of panic going through me. What had I done wrong? Had I contradicted myself? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t the one keeping a comprehensive pile of notes on this. So I kept my breathing even — this wasn’t the first time I’ve been called out — and said, “I told you everything I saw.”

A small smile pulled on Matt’s lips, almost a smirk. “But you didn’t tell me everything you _know_.”

I played dumb. “I don’t understand.”

“The men you saw that night. Did any of them seem familiar to you? They all live in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe you recognized one of them.”

“Would it matter if I did? They’re all in custody now.”

“It does matter,” Matt said, leaning forward a little. I then realized we were having an argument, and how scary it was to be fighting against my own lawyer. “Because it changes motive. Now, obviously, they all claimed not to know you, to protect their own hides, which brings up their own slew of problems, but the jury’s going to think differently if told otherwise.”

“Like she said, it was on the news,” the blind lawyer replied simply. “One of them confessed when they were taken in. Mahoney told us about it, remember? You’re the one that said that crooks like them were more useful in jail than on the streets.”

“Oh, right,” Foggy nodded as he finally remembered. “I forgot about that. I didn’t think it’d have anything to do with... _this_. Didn’t a few go to the hospital?”

“The Devil beat ‘em up pretty bad,” I decided to input.

“But none of them looked familiar to you?”

I heaved a sigh, rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hands. Matt raised his eyebrows, saying, “What was that?”

“Oh, she just hung her head, I think you’re wearing her down,” Foggy narrated helpfully. “And, uh, now she’s giving me the evil eye.”

I kept the glare a second longer, keeping my focus on Foggy and his paling face as I spoke to Matt. “The man with the crowbar. I’ve seen him before.”

Matt motioned for Foggy to take notes but the blond man seemed reluctant to move while I was still glowering at him. “Where?”

“My apartment building.”

“He lives there?”

“He owns it.”

The partners exchanged looks, or at least Foggy did, and he was the one who asked, “He’s your landlord?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” I snapped. “His name is Luca Tomoni. He likes to smoke cigars.”

Matt raised a placating hand before I could say anything else mean. “Easy there, girl. It’s an honest question. Did Mr. Tomoni have a reason to go after you? Did you forget to pay the rent?”

“No, I did that at the beginning of the month.” I said, “He replaced the old landlord in November, upped the cost of rent to double. I’ve been saving by not using heat or electricity —”

“In the _winter_?”

Well, it was easier when I wasn’t actually living there most of the time. “Yeah. I’m not using it. I’ve been at my cousin’s place in Queens for a while.”

“You can’t think of any other reason why he’d attack you?”

“N-no…” I stammered, answering just as a thought occurred to me. The two lawyers gave me curious looks and I elaborated, “Well, I mean, aside from the whole Spider-Man thing. But I didn’t think Tomoni ever had something against him.”

“So, he had virtually no motive to attack?” Foggy said, pointing his pen at me and frowning. “Then why would Tomoni go after you?”

I looked at the table.

“Amy?” Matt asked when I didn’t respond.

“The last time there was a crime in my building, I was thrown out my window.”

At first, neither of them said anything. Foggy dropped his pen, fumbling to pick it up again. He was stuttering all over the place, unable to look at me, “O-on the tenth floor? I-I mean, how are you – how did you even —?”

“Beats me,” I shrugged my shoulders, slumping back in my chair. “This was before the new landlord. Maybe he realized the Rose didn’t do the job right and he knew he needed to finish it.”

“You think the Rose is behind this?” Matt asked with a tilt of his head. While Foggy seemed to be in the midst of a personal freak out, Matt had remained calm, if somewhat tense, as we continued to talk. “Why would they want you dead?”

“I…” should I tell them? I had already said so much. Things I haven’t talked about in months. “They took my mother to find my father. I don’t even know who he is — just that he got a debt to the Rose, and they really want to collect. I was an unnecessary piece, and I guess they decided they didn’t want the trouble of having me around.”

“And I imagine your father is keeping his head low.”

“He probably doesn’t even know I exist.” I said, then shook my head. “Anyways, that’s not the point. I just — what the hell am I supposed to do? Am I witness to a crime? Are they gonna keep sending people after me? I’ve got enough trouble as it is.”

“Nothing, for now,” Matt raised his hand when I was about to protest, and I stopped myself, half out of surprise. Damn, he was good. “There is nothing any of us can feasibly do at the moment. Lawyers aren’t exactly proactive by nature. If you’re really worried, then you _should_ go to the police. Until then, my best advice is to stay safe.”

“Why? So the Devil can pick off the last witness?” Foggy asked sarcastically.

“What? No.” Matt frowned at the same time I said, “You’d think he’d do that?”

“I do,” Foggy said with a chuff nod.

“ _No_.” Matt said more emphatically, throwing his friend an irritated glance, almost looking offended. He turned back to me. “Whatever his motivations are, this...Devil persona, he may have other things to think about. And if he really is after you, we might’ve heard something on the news. Right, Foggy?”

“Right,” the blond man muttered, scribbling something on his legal pad in glumness.

I wasn’t blind (oh, god, what’s wrong with me) to Matt’s attempt at calming me, and to be honest I was a little relieved, but now Foggy had planted the seed, and I couldn’t shake it. What if the Devil really _did_ have nefarious plans? I hadn’t considered it, or at least not seriously, because he had seemed kind, and, well, saved my life. But even bad guys can do good things if they wanted to.

I also couldn’t help but feel this endeavor was entirely pointless. But then, what did I expect? They were lawyers, they only helped _after_ a crime had been committed, and they don’t do the arresting/detaining thing.

I sighed, pulling myself out of the chair. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Not much else I can do...”

As I made my way towards the door, Matt cleared his throat. “Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

I paused to glance back, looking about the room as if that might hold the answer. “I-I don’t think so...?”

Foggy just laughed while Matt raised an eyebrow. “I understand it wasn’t the main reason you came here, but the job offer’s still on the table, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, right,” I had completely forgotten about that. My hand slid off the doorknob as I stepped back into the office. “What, exactly, is the job again?”

“You can make coffee, right?” Foggy asked with a cheeky grin.

I glared at him, which immediately stopped any laughing, while Matt continued regardless. “We’d probably be using you in an investigative capacity. Obviously, we can get very busy here, and we don’t always have the time to locate witnesses or collecting electronic evidence. You seem to be skilled at snooping. You’d do better if you had something to work for. And getting paid for it, too.”

“Uh,” Foggy raised his hand like he was in a classroom. “Not that I don’t like this idea, I do, she’s scary for a sprout, but, uh, isn’t that kind of illegal? I mean, what if she gets caught?”

I snorted at the idea before I could stop myself. Me? Caught? Unlikely.

Still, Matt seemed just as serious as Foggy about it. “He’s right, Amy. Under no circumstances are you to engage with anyone at any time. Don’t go where you’re not supposed to. Don’t talk to anyone who could be dangerous. That’s our job to handle. _Your_ job is just to observe and gather information. Is that clear?”

“You go where you’re not allowed?”

“I was speaking hypothetically.”

I frowned, considering it. Not that I actually expected them to give me dangerous work, or make me do anything that might risk my life or, well, anything else. But Matt’s insistence on the matter made me feel like maybe something else was going on. How much did he know about me? Was he really that worried I’d do something so stupid?

(I mean, I probably would, but that’s not the point).

Eventually, I said, “Sounds fine to me. But how much are you paying?”

Matt opened his mouth to reply, but it was Foggy who cleared his throat and very diplomatically said, “Me and my partner were thinking of paying you a flat rate for whatever tasks we require you to do.”

“In other words,” Matt added. “We’d pay you hourly if we could afford it.”

“But we can’t.”

“No, we cannot.”

I just shrugged. “Fine by me.”

Both of them looked surprised. “Really?”

“I’m a broke high school kid. I’d accept even if you paid me in donuts.”

“Well, we have plenty of those, too —” Foggy started to saw, only to get elbowed by Matt, who quickly spoke over him. “That’s great! You won’t start immediately, though — it would be best if we waited until after this whole thing with your cousin blows over.”

“Yeah...” I rubbed the back of my head, making a face. “That-that’s a problem. Hopefully, it goes away soon.”

But even “soon” wasn’t soon enough.


	24. In Propria Persona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughh I'm so glad to be over this episode. It took too long. I really just want to get this over with now :P
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**In Propria Persona**

* * *

 

 

“Is that...is that _Flash_ dressed as the Spider-Man?”

Everyone gathered at the windows. I turned in my seat, pencil stuck in my mouth, as everyone pressed their faces against the glass to get a good look. Did I hear that right? Why the hell...

It was Study Hall at the moment, and the teacher had little effect on controlling her students. Half of them weren’t doing work anyways, and everyone was far more interested in the paparazzi that had been hanging outside the school gates for the past few days.

I don’t think anyone had ever stood up to them before, at least not a student.

I had to stand on a desk to see over everyone else’s big fat heads. Indeed, three floors below, was someone in a spidey-suit and crutches. It was, of course, Flash, who somehow managed to get that suit on despite his broken leg. What the heck was he trying to do? I knew he didn’t believe Peter was Spider-Man, but this was going a little far.

“Whoa,” some genius said. “Do you guys think he’s actually Spider-Man?”

“No, you idiot,” another snapped. “That’s obviously just a dollar-store costume. Spider-Man isn’t that big!”

“Are you sure? Because my cousin once got rescued by Spider-Man, and _she_ said that he was super-tall! And Flash is super-tall!”

“Yeah, and so are a million other people in New York. Besides, your cousin’s, like, a Hobbit, so everyone looks tall to her.”

“Hey, that’s not nice!”

I rolled my eyes and jumped off the table. Rather than listening to some morons argue, I got myself excused to the bathroom. But instead of going there, I took station at the hall window overlooking the street below.

Some goons had just gotten out of their car, rounding on the Not-Spider-Man, in front of two dozen reporters and cameras. Apparently, they thought they were in for an easy beat.

I tensed, wondering if I should intervene. Flash didn’t stand a chance against those goons, even if he _wasn’t_ injured.

But was I ready enough to fight?

          

* * *

 

 

 

There was a knock on the door.

Bruce frowned. Who was this? He had become used to Amelia’s presence, but she was rarely in the house at this time. The girl had school, which she attended every day despite her distaste for the students and faculty there, and had yet to disappoint him in playing hooky.

It wasn’t the mailman; it was too late in the day. And Smoke didn’t knock, he used the doorbell (when he remembered to at all) before coming inside.

Which meant there was a stranger at his door.

Bruce considered not getting it, pretending the house was empty. Through the door’s veiled window he could see the silhouette of a thickset man, who only continued to knock harder the longer he waited.

It didn’t appear to be military. If Ross knew that Dr. Bruce Banner lived in this particular house, he would send a nuke, not a single officer.

So Bruce opened that door, wondering just what was in store for him.

On his stoop stood a blond man - not much older than Smoke, slightly shorter but much larger. His physique spoke of high school sports, probably football or rugby, and his worn black leather jacket told of a life on the streets. It told him absolutely nothing of why this man would be on his doorstep, though.

“Can I help you?” Bruce asked. The man didn’t seem to be confused or lost - in fact, he looked rather smug. How odd.

“Dr. Banner?” the man asked, but it sounded less like a question and more like a declaration. Of victory? Who was this guy? “You’re Amelia’s new foster dad, right? I’m a friend of hers. My name’s Eddie Brock.”

 

* * *

Luckily, I didn’t have to make the decision, because out of nowhere Spider-Man dropped down, landing on a nearby streetlamp and confusing the hell out of those goons.

Spider-Man dealt with them easily. Not being of the smart variety, they were easily tricked into grabbing a webbed-up crutch (as unwillingly supplied from Flash), getting their hands glued to the metal, before getting stuck to _each other_ , making it very easy for them to be knocked over. It was almost embarrassing to watch, really.

While I couldn’t hear what was going on, it wasn’t hard to figure out. Flash promptly pulled off his mask, looking victorious in front of the dumb-founded reporters, who had all believed him to be the real Spider-Man. Is that what he had been doing? Was he trying to prove them silly for believing everything they were told?

Huh. Maybe Flash wasn’t so bad after all.

Although it kind of figured, though. Flash was Spider-Man’s biggest fan (ironically), and to have such a reputation smeared by Parker’s name? It must have been like blasphemy for him.

However, the happy mood was suddenly ruined when a giant black shadow swooped in and smashed Spider-Man into a nearby taxi.

My heart dropped as I ducked behind the wall, entirely on instinct. Oh, god, not now. Not _here_.

I thought maybe this was just some terrible nightmare, or hallucination. But no. When I looked out again, I could easily identify him, in all his slimy glory.

Venom had arrived.

 

* * *

Bruce frowned.

Was that the lie she was going with? It wasn’t necessarily a bad one, but Bruce would’ve appreciated it if she had told him first. He had a few objections; being unprepared for confrontations with people from her civilian life would be one of them.

After a second of hesitation, and hoping it didn’t come off as too suspicious, the doctor nodded. “Yes. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Amy,” Eddie said, then paused. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I think I have some information you’ll want to know about her. Can I come in?”

Eddie Brock was under the assumption that Bruce was some naive man who’d just let anyone in out of the goodness of his heart - because he took one step forward to walk inside without even waiting for permission. But Bruce swung the door, narrowing the threshold before that could happen. Eddie halted, a look of surprise on his face. That surprise faded, however, and his eyes narrowed dangerously at being denied entrance.

But it was going to take a lot more than that to scare somebody like Bruce. “What kind of information?”  
  
“Amelia isn’t the girl you think she is.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve only known her for a couple months.”

“No, Dr. Banner,” Eddie shook his head and chuckled. He sounded so arrogant but Bruce couldn’t help but feel satisfaction in the way that the stranger had fallen for his clueless-parent act. “This is a kind of secret that could, well, _ruin_ your life. If you let me in, I can explain.”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to laugh a little. “My life was ruined a long time ago, Mr. Brock. I doubt there’s anything you can tell me that will trump that.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie tilted his head.

Bruce wasn’t sure, but even Amelia’s... _abnormality_ was small potatoes compared to the Other Guy. He couldn’t pretend that Amelia may be hiding more from him; he was sure of it, but he was also sure she had every right to keep those secrets.

_But what if_ _…_

The curiosity was biting at him. After learning Ross was in Detroit, Bruce had started to live life a little more carefully - as if he hadn’t been already. He started questioning things he took for granted: was the mailman a spy? Or the cashier woman at the supermarket? Were the dogs that lived nearby trained to sniff out Gamma-irradiated super beings?

Unfortunately, that suspicion had now extended to Amelia. It seemed foolish, but it would be _more_ foolish not to learn what this Eddie knew.

“Fine. Get in.”

 

* * *

_Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap._

As soon as I saw Venom rip off Spider-Man’s mask and toss the car over, I was flying down the stairs. So fast, in fact, that I almost fell down head over heels several times, and had to grab the railing for support.

By the time I reached the eighth floor and looked out the window again, Spider-Man had his mask back on and the two were fighting in the courtyard. Spider-Man was slinging web after web at Venom, but it had no effect.

I didn’t think it could get any worse until Venom started slinging _cannon balls_ at him.   
  
It occurred to me that Peter was not the only one in danger here, and that there was a surprising lack of evacuating students. What if one of those missiles broke through a window and hurt someone?

I turned and searched for the nearest fire alarm. I spotted one, about twenty feet away, next to the boy’s bathroom. Running over, I reached out and yanked down as hard as I could.

I would’ve used my telekinesis if I had it. I _definitely_ would’ve used it if I’d known that the thing would _explode_ once activated. Suddenly, blue ink sprayed out, staining my hands as a high-pitched scream filled the air.

“What the hell?” I wrung my hands, trying to wipe off the blue ink, but it was thick and gooey and apparently permanent. Not only was it on my hands, but it was on my shirt and jeans, too. “Aw, man, these were my favorite!”

* * *

 

The smirk on Eddie’s face unsettled him, to the point that the Other Guy started to twitch. There was something false about this Brock character, a level of crookedness that immediately earned Bruce’s distrust. He wondered about Brock’s original claim - was he really a friend of Amelia’s? If not, how did he come to know her?  
  
Closing the door behind him, Bruce eyed the stranger now taking stock of his living room. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Instead of responding right away, Eddie flopped into the easy chair ( _his_ chair), making himself comfortable without any proper invitation. “Oh, this is nice. Amelia’s sure lucky to end up here. As a veteran of the foster life myself, she could’ve ended up with a lot worse.”

“Is that how you know Amy?”

“What? Oh, no, I went to school with her,” Eddie shook his head, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and getting mud everywhere. The Other Guy didn’t like that either. Eddie peered at the TV, perhaps judging how old it was, and asked without looking at Bruce. “You got no wife and kids of your own, Dr. Banner?”

“No.” Bruce’s tone was clipped, perhaps an personal affectation about his current condition in life. This was certainly the age where he _should_ have had a family, now an impossibility, a reality he would never get to experience. And he didn’t like how Brock changed the subject. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Eddie shrugged, but it was clear it _wasn’t_ nothing that was going on in that head of his. “I didn’t know adoption agencies still allowed single-parent adoption. It’s better for kids to live in a two-parent home, a mother and a father who can provide healthy growth and development.”

“It was an independent adoption,” Bruce said, crossing his arms and eyeing the guy now questioning his skills as a parent. Not that Bruce could ever claim to be one, but now under scrutiny, he felt as though he had something to prove. “But your concern is appreciated. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“Not really, no,” Eddie said. The ambiguous answer seemed intentional; although he had not outright told Bruce his opinion, it was still fairly obvious of what Eddie thought of Amelia’s current familial situation. “We were like family, you know, me, Amelia, and Peter. We had each other’s backs. It wasn’t easy graduating and leaving them behind. And they did all right on their own, you know, they’re growing up. But Amy hasn’t been the same since her mom disappeared.”

* * *

Spider-Man and Venom were now fighting on a helicopter, sticking to its sides as its terrified occupants tried not to lose control. People on the ground were scattering, and the halls were suddenly filled with shouting and thundering footsteps as teachers ushered everyone out the back entrance, away from the courtyard and all the trouble.

I had returned to the window, watching the fight in terrified silence. What more was there I could do? I wanted to help Peter, but as I was, I couldn’t fight. At least, not as Falcon.

“Miss Fletcher!” I heard Mrs. Murphy snap. I groaned inwardly — of course I had to end up on the same floor as her. “Stop lollygagging and move! Can’t you hear the siren?”

I heard her approached and I zipped up my jacket and stuffed my hands in my pockets before she could see the ink. I did _not_ need to get in trouble for pulling the fire alarm — _again._ Granted, this time was actually an emergency, but I wasn’t sure if the Principal would see it the same way.

A hand fell on my shoulder just as the helicopter started to fall. “No, wait!”

* * *

 

 

 _Disappeared_?

Bruce paused, caught by surprise. Okay, so maybe Eddie _did_ have something he wanted to know. While he didn’t know this guy, Bruce had the distinct feeling Eddie wasn’t entirely lying, either. It explained the foster parent cover as well.

Still, that was probably another one of Amelia’s secrets she didn’t want to about, and to be honest Bruce didn’t blame her. He wasn’t happy that he had to find out this way, and they were definitely going to talk about it later, but right now that wasn’t his biggest problem.

He finally entered the living room, leaving the door behind him. For some reason, Bruce felt he had to get closer, to really analyze this stranger sitting in his chair. “Is that so?”

“You didn’t know her then, man,” Eddie waved his hand, eyes going distant as he reminisced. “Amy used to be so shy, so sweet. She got picked on a lot. Did you know she deliberately got bad grades so she wouldn’t get bullied for being smart? Unbelievable.”

Bruce had to agree, although he wouldn’t say that out loud. This didn’t sound like Amelia at all.

And yet, it somehow made sense, in a twisted sort of way. While Amelia didn’t make such an effort to hide her intelligence when questioned, she didn’t show it off either - in a manner that would make others underestimate her, so she could have the element of surprise.

 _That_ sounded like the Amelia he knew. Somehow she managed to turn her own fears into an advantage.

“But then that all changed,” Brock continued, his expression turning dark. Bruce watched with rising trepidation as the man curled his hand into a fist. “Suddenly she’s taking risks she never would’ve done before. Not just normal little risks like public speaking or actually getting her grades up, no, I’m talking big things. Scary things.”

“Things like what?” Bruce had a pretty good idea where this was going, but the fascination in Amelia’s change had him at the end of Brock’s hook. “Joining a sports team?”

“Think bigger, dude,” Eddie said. “Like, she jumps into oncoming traffic, walking through the streets in the middle of the night, getting into fights in school. Did you know she broke a girl’s arm back in November? Just for trying to steal the basketball in gym class! I guess I should’ve seen it sooner.”

“It gets worse?” It doesn’t surprise Bruce that Amelia gets into fights with her classmates. Although he had very few details, he knew her blunt, bad attitude was bound to get her into trouble.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, his tone changing. He cast Bruce a squinty look, as if sizing him up. “But I’m not sure you’re going to believe me.”

Bruce sighed. Remember, _be the parent_. What would a concerned, clueless father say? “I _believe_...that Amelia needs a calm, stable environment. I can only do that if I know everything.”

Eddie Brock smiled and Bruce knew he hit it right on the money.

Then he took a deep breath. “Amy is Falcon.”

 

* * *

 

“Now, Amelia!” Mrs. Murphy commanded, yanking me back just as Spider-Man formed a large web over the courtyard. “Or you’ll have detention until the end of —”

But I didn’t get to hear the full extent of her threat when a mighty crash threw glass from our left. Mrs. Murphy cried out, letting go of me as she turned and ran down the stairs, following the last of the students out of the building. I don’t know if she just forgot about me, or just didn’t care, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Venom and Spider-Man were right next door. And I could help.

They had busted into the chemistry lab, and as I burst through the door, I found Venom on the ceiling and Spider-Man on the floor.

I hadn’t taken two steps before Venom dropped down, picked up Spider-Man, and threw him across a desk, knocking off all the lab equipment and sending the whole thing toppling over. Then he had Peter by the throat against the wall, about to pound him, when I acted.

Grabbing the nearest thing I could find - a bottle of sulfuric acid - and shouted, “Hey, ugly!”

Venom turned, surprised, just as the bottle smashed against his back, the liquid sizzling against the black goo. He hissed, dropping Spider-Man as the acid burned through his second skin.

It distracted him only for a moment, though. Then Venom was rounding on me, baring his razor sharp teeth. “Well, well, looked who came to play!”

Already realizing that I may have made a big mistake, I was scrambling back when Venom lunged at me. I threw myself out of the way, putting a table between us. He upended it, sending chemicals and trays flying. More glassware crashed upon his shoulders, and Venom writhed as more hazardous ingredients ate through the skin.

I crashed to the floor, bruising my elbows and my knees. I looked up and made eye-contact with Spider-Man, who shouted, “What are you doing?!”

“I’m trying to help, what does it look like I’m doing?”  
  
He looked like he was about to retort but then we both spotted the ignited Bunsen burner at the same time. “Uh-oh.”

* * *

Bruce had a quick moment where he wasn’t sure to give up the act now or to keep waiting. He decided on the latter and pulled his expression into one of shock. “Impossible.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Eddie laughed, but there was no humor in it. “As a foster dad, you just want to see the best in Amy, you don’t want to think she’s some freak with crazy powers. But that’s where you’re wrong.”

Bruce thought to add something, but Eddie was on a roll.

“You see, the thing about Amy is, she’s just a little bit selfish,” he started, voice oddly light. “She doesn’t think about anyone but herself when she goes out into the night, playing hero. She thinks she’s special, that her actions don’t have consequences.”

“What I’m trying to say is, she’s made enemies,” Eddie shifted his weight, and for a second he seemed to flicker, like the darkness of his clothes were shifting. “And she doesn’t care who gets hurt. She abandoned Peter, she abandoned _me_ , when I needed her most. She does what she wants, she takes advantage of people, and ditches everything when it gets too hard. And she’ll do the same to you, and you’ll be stuck cleaning up her mess.”

“So, what?” Bruce asked, appraising Brock’s judgment. It was clear he no longer saw Amy as a friend and was here for some ulterior motive. “You’re saying I should turn her away? Leave her to the streets?”

“If you know what’s best for you.”

“And what if I don’t?” Defiance had crept into his voice at these words, but the doctor managed to hold his calm veneer.

Brock did not. He scowled so deeply that it was almost a grimace. It ruined his handsome face. “Well, then, you’re going to regret it.”

 

* * *

Spider-Man was already moving. _Thwipping_ to the ceiling, he swung out and over, grabbing me and hauling us both out of the way just as the fire exploded, mixing with all the new chemicals in the air.

Venom was right in the way, and got the full force of the blast. The symbiote screeched, writhing against Eddie as the heat forced it away.

“You need to get out of here,” Peter tried to warn me, tucking me in a corner of the room as if that’d make me safe. “It’s too dangerous, he’s completely —”

“RAAWHG!” Venom bellowed as he slammed feet-first into Spider-Man, throwing him out another window.

They both went flying out, leaving me in the dust. Deciding

I gasped, covering my face with my arms as glass flew everywhere. Once it was clear, I took off out the door, heading down the stairs. The entire school was empty now, thanks to my efforts, and now I was starting to see the wisdom in Peter’s words. Maybe I wasn’t ready to fight someone as strong as _Venom_ yet.

But I had only made it down two more floors before the comedy duo made an encore appearance — Venom suddenly smashing through a door to my left, with Spider-Man in pursuit. There was a fallen baseball bat on the floor, which he promptly picked up, placing himself between me and Venom against the wall of the lockers.

Venom got up and sneered. “Do you really think you can hurt us with _that_?”

Spider-Man shrugged. “Kinda.”

And before Venom could attack, Spider-Man jumped down and swung that baseball bat as hard as he could — at the lockers, which released a high-pitched resonance that sent Venom stumbling back, covering his ears and snarling in pain.

Spider-Man managed two more whacks before Venom snatched it away with his web, standing up with squinted eyes.

“That was...” he hissed, grabbing the bat between his two fists and snapping it in half. “ _Unpleasant_.”

“Oh, great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Now he’s mad.”

“You know what, if I wanted your opinion, I’d —” Peter turned to me, looking a little annoyed, but didn’t get the chance before he was punted across the hall and down the stairwell.

“Hey!” I shouted, grabbing a fallen book and throwing it at Venom’s head. It wasn’t much, but I was working on my aim — and it turned out to be pretty good. Picking up another book, and a baseball, I threw those, too, if only to distract him so Peter could recover. “You’re one real mean piece of work, aren’t you?”

But Venom didn’t follow Spider-Man, and he didn’t brush aside my blows. I realized only too late that I should’ve run while I had the chance.

“You,” Venom hissed, turning on me, and before I could get away, I was being slammed back against the lockers, covered in black web. “Are becoming a nuisance. Unfortunately,” Venom drew near, his sharp teeth and snake-like tongue coming within inches of my face. “We have no quarrel with you.”

Huh? I blinked, surprised, as Venom backed off. I was about to ask what the heck he was talking about, but Venom was suddenly knocked out of the picture when Spider-Man swooped in, tackling him away from me. “Leave her alone!”

While they continued to tussle, I was left stuck against the lockers, shocked and speechless. Why didn’t Venom attack me? I was wide open and...and...he promised he’d ruin my life... So why didn’t he live up to it?

This wasn’t the Eddie I knew. This wasn’t the _Venom_ I knew.

What the hell was going on?

 

* * *

 

“Is that a threat?”

He stood up. Knowing himself to be of superior stature, Eddie Brock rolled his shoulders and clenched his fists at his side. This was clearly a show of intimidation. Bruce wondered, off hand, if he could provoke Brock into punching him; then he’d be in for a _real_ surprise.

But the cost wasn’t worth it, so he humored the guy in letting him speak.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with, old man,” Brock snarled, jabbing a finger at him. He was huffing like a gorilla beating the ground with its fists. “What Amy does it child’s play, but I can be your worst nightmare.”

At this, Bruce could no longer keep a straight face. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Bruce just smiled and said, “I doubt it.”

Brock faltered, caught off guard by the doctor’s nonchalant response. But he recovered just as quickly. “I ain’t joking around here -”

“Do you really think I would let a girl live in my house, not knowing who she was, or what she could do? I’m fully aware the danger she brings, and you’re right: it _is_ child’s play. I have seen and done things you can’t even begin to imagine, and you have the audacity to stand in my house and tell me what to fear?”  
  
Watching the evolution of Brock’s expression was a sight within itself. Anger falling away to surprise, to a smug sneer, and now starting to edge into uncertainty.

“You might think you’re the bigger man in this house, but it won’t be you walking out of this place alive if you decide to start this war.”

Brock huffed, trying on a look of bravado, but it could not hide the growing apprehension in his eyes. “You’re just bluffing, old man.”

The doctor smiled. He realized that in this standoff, there was a serious possibility of the Other Guy coming out - but for once the thought didn’t completely terrify him. He didn’t understand it, but the Other Guy liked Amelia and wanted to smash this guy to pieces for even daring to threaten her life (or for that matter, his own). And Dr. Banner was okay with that. “You’re certainly welcome to find out, but I doubt luck will be on your side.”

He almost wished Brock chanced it and took a swing at him, and he was actually disappointed when the blond man backed down. Instead of of throwing a fist at the doctor, Brock just sneered as he stalked around Banner and reached for the door. “I’m not going to waste my time with you. My only issue is with Amy.”

“If she doesn’t come home, you’re going to have a much bigger issue, Mr. Brock.” The doctor shot back, not about to be trumped by a minor insult. He watched as a look flickered across Eddie Brock’s face, before the man uttered an incomprehensible growl and slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

 

 

By the time I managed to pull myself free of the black web (and losing some hair in the process, ow), Spider-Man and Venom had already found their way to the bottom of the school, somewhere in the gym. I could hear them fighting as I jumped down the steps, not even bothering to hit them all, and swinging myself around corners to get down faster.

They had smashed their way into one of the locker room’s just as I entered. Not waiting a second, I tore after them, busting through the door with my good shoulder. I skidded to a stop a few feet inside, startled to see Venom crouching over a fallen Spider-Man.

His arm was raised, having just uncorked a small vial. “...Time to take your medicine.”

An oddly familiar vial.

Was that the gene cleanser?

Oh no. _Nononono_ , very bad, that’s very bad —

“Hey, what the —” Flash’s voice shocked me back to the present. He appeared out of one of the locker aisles, giving me a strange look. “Girls’ aren’t allowed to be in here!”

“Out of the way!” I had no idea what Flash was still doing in here when the fire alarm was going off, but I didn’t care. I pushed past him, grabbing Venom’s arm and yanking back so he couldn’t pour the contents down Peter’s throat.

Venom sneered and tossed me off easily, but then it was Flash who intervened, smacking Venom with his crutch. “Hey, doofus! You got the wrong Spider-Man!”

“Oh, please, you’re not fooling — ugh!” Venom started to say, but not before Spider-Man snatched back the vial and kicked the monster off of him.

Venom hit the ceiling before crashing to the floor, Spider-Man jumping away and on a wall, guarding the vial carefully. To us, he said, “Thanks, you did good. But now book, you two!”

“Right! Booking!” Flash said, pulling off his mask and hobbling off as best as he could.

I followed Flash, but only to make sure he got out all right. As we came out into the gym, he turned to me and said, “Why the heck did you follow them in there?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging helplessly. “I just wanted to help.”

But instead of making fun of me, or doubting me, or anything else I thought Flash might do, he just nodded and smiled. “Cool! I didn’t know you liked Spider-Man.”

“Of course I do, he’s —” I stopped myself before I could say anything bad. I glanced behind me, wanting to go back and help, but finding myself stuck with Flash until this all blew over. There was no way I could get rid of him without facing consequences. I kept walking, keeping pace with Flash as we made for the exit. “He, um, he saved my life once. I wanted to return the favor.”

“Really?” Flash looked almost envious. Then his expression changed. “Hey, you don’t think he’s Parker, do you?”

“Of course not. Peter Parker, Spider-Man? Please.”

“Ha, I knew it,” Flash grinned smugly, pausing while I opened the door to let him through easier. “Thanks. You’re not so bad after all, Fletcher.”

“That means a lot, coming from you,” I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic, or smirk. That would kind of ruin the mood, wouldn’t it?

A swarm of police cruisers, firetrucks, and ambulances were waiting outside, checking out student and faculty alike, although I didn’t think anyone got hurt besides the helicopter pilots. They got really concerned when they saw me and Flash come out, before they learned that Flash’s injuries were unrelated to the current incident.

There was no way I could go back inside after that. I waited with the rest of the kids — some having already left with their parents, or gone home on the metro, since class was obviously cancelled — and Mrs. Murphy eventually found me. I had to endure a fifteen minute lecture, which was actually cut short when the police that went inside came out with none other than Eddie Brock on a stretcher, strapped down and behind pushed out.

He was absolutely raving, and notably lacking a symbiotic suit. “It’ll come back! You’ll see. We’re Venom! And we’ll destroy Spider-Man yet!”

Mrs. Murphy looked so surprised that she didn’t even notice when I slipped away.

“Miss Fletcher! Can you come here, please?”

For a second, I thought I was screwed, before I realized it was Captain Stacy calling me over. I saw his head over the crowd, waving me over, and when I approached, I realized Peter was with him, too. I didn’t know how he got out, or managed to change out of his suit, but now we were about to get a talking to by NYC’s police chief.

This couldn’t be good.

“I wanted to apologize to you two,” Captain Stacy said once we were both standing in front of him. He looked recalcitrant, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s partially my fault that you’ve been hounded all week by these bozos,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at some reporters. “And as Mr. Thompson has proved, everyone’s been a little, er, _rabid_ about any news about Spider-Man that, well, we’d believe just about everything. I understand that you two were pursued unfairly and life has been difficult lately.”

“It’s all right,” Peter smiled, looking relieved to finally be off the hook. I had to admit, this definitely wasn’t what I expected to here. “I’m sure Spider-Man’s still out there... somewhere. You’ll get him someday, I’ll bet.”

“Hmm, yes,” Captain Stacy made a face, looking not quite as sure. “About that. I once thought his whole masked vigilante thing was...problematic. But I’ve come to realize that Spider-Man’s true identity was revealed, _everyone_ he cared about would be in constant danger. Maybe a man in a mask doesn’t have something to hide — but something to _protect_. Wouldn’t you two agree?”

“Uh,” Peter and I glanced at each other. A strange chill went down my back. This conversation was feeling weirdly...on point. “Y-yes, sir.”

Captain Stacy gave us a curt nod before walking away. As soon as he was out of earshot, I leaned in and asked, “He doesn’t know...does he?”

Peter looked bewildered. “No way. T-that’s impossible. He’s just saying that because of what happened. What he _thinks_ happened.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said, nodding and backing off. Maybe Peter was right. But it still felt strange. If it was really meant for Peter, then why did Captain Stacy want me to hear that, too?


	25. Dictum Meum Pactum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. School's started and this last scene was really hard to write. I wrote it three different ways and wasn't happy, so I just forgot about it for a while. Then I remembered I need to finish this silly thing, so I just picked my favorite and made some edits. I think the problem with the first draft was repetitive dialogue. Hopefully it turned out all right.
> 
> Anyways, Read and review!

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**Dictum Meum Pactum**

* * *

 

 

Despite his show of force, Bruce Banner could not relax until 5 o’clock that evening, when the front door opened and in walked Amelia. She looked tired and smelled of chemicals, but appeared unhurt.

She gave a half-hearted smile at the sight of him waiting. “Hey, Doc."

Not entirely sure how to play this (concerned? Should he bring up Eddie Brock right away? Or innocent and pretend it never happened? Amelia had nothing to worry about, really, but that wouldn’t ease her thoughts any). So he went for neutral: “What happened?”

“Oh, nothing,” the girl said, but her voice was tense as she slung off her backpack and dropped onto the couch. “Just an old-friend-turned-homicidal-maniac attacking the school and almost getting my friends killed in the process. You know, no big deal.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bruce asked as he sat down in his chair. He had cleaned away all the mud and stench from the intruder, glad to have his seat back.

The girl heaved a sigh. A silent no.

But Bruce did not consider hulking out as a possible outcome to this entire ordeal and not get any answers out of it. They were going to talk about this whether she liked it or not. “Does it have anything to do with Eddie Brock?”

“Wha -” Amy looked up at him in surprise, her eyes widening. the doctor wondered if he made a mistake when her reaction wasn’t frustration, but rather panic. She demanded, “How did you know? Who told you?”

Then, without giving him a chance to respond, the girl bolted off the couch, saying, “Oh, my god, he showed up here, didn’t he? I can’t believe it! How did he even know? I never told anyone! What did he say? Did he try to hurt you?”

“I’m sure he wanted to,” Bruce said, standing up to face the pacing girl. The windows were starting to shake from her growing anxiety, and he knew from personal experience what would happen if he didn’t calm her down right away. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Bruce got the girl to stop for a second and look at him long enough for him to say, “But nothing happened. I convinced him that attacking me would be a very poor choice.”

“He bought it?” Amelia asked, her eyebrows shooting up. She seemed impressed, although probably not in the way he intended.

“Well, I can be intimidating when I want to be,” he replied, trying not to feel offended by the idea that Amelia found him unimposing in any way whatsoever. Perhaps it was a good thing. It was probably why he managed to stay in hiding for so long.

She opened her mouth, about to say something else, when her gaze flicked to something behind him. Bruce glanced around, remembering he had left the TV on. Wondering what caught her attention, he listened to the reporter.

" _...men arrested several nights ago were found all dead by this afternoon._ " The woman said, her voice grave but otherwise expressionless. _"One was found hanging in his cell, one attacked an officer and was shot down, and a third expired from unknown causes in the hospital. The fourth man was hit by a car on his way to a court hearing — others were injured, but no one was seriously harmed. The fifth and final man was thought to have escaped custody, but was later found in an alleyway, shot execution style."_

“What?" Her voice was little more than a whisper. Bruce looked back at her, frowning. The story had Amelia’s rapt attention, although he wasn’t quite sure what had her so interested. Or so pale.

“ _Police have not yet said if these deaths are related_ ," The woman said and Amelia snorted aloud. Even Bruce thought it was sort of silly. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure _that_ one out. " _But they advise the public to remain in their homes at night. There has been a rise in petty crime in the city, and police are urging others to..."_

"Amelia?" He asked, and the girl jolted like she had just been electrocuted. "Amelia, are you alright?"

"I..." she blinked, shook her head. “I'm fine. It's nothing. I just...got distracted. Um," Amelia threw him an uncertain look. "I have to go talk to someone. I'll be right back."

Bruce raised his hand to stop her, but Amelia was already out the door before he could say something.

 

* * *

I sat on the shingled roof, hugging my knees as I breathed in the crisp night air.  

It wasn't as loud here as it was downtown, or even in Hell's Kitchen. I guess that was a plus about living in the Village. I could see why the Doc liked it here.

I was waiting for Spider-Man —- there was a lot to talk about, especially my whole dealio with not being at Aunt May's and all. I was pretty sure I had come up with a full-proof excuse that might save me from extra trouble; I just wanted to see what Peter thought, and maybe refine it a little. He was always the better strategist anyways.

I chose not to meet at the Doc's, deciding to respect his need for privacy and the fact he doesn't want to meet any more new people than he has to. Eddie had been an unexpected scare, and while I still felt like I was the only one freaked out, I didn't want to rely on the idea that the Doc wouldn't get hurt the next time something like that happened.

I had to admit, though, I had no idea how the man could keep a cool head and still manage to intimidate Eddie at the same time. That took some serious moxie. What about him that was so scary that it sent Eddie running with his tail between his legs?

Doctor Banner had been pretty blasé about it —- I couldn't help but feel he was hiding something from me. But what?

Well, it was a question that would have to wait until later.

I gazed up at the sky, wondering where Spider-Man was. It was freezing out, despite the lack of snow, and I really hoped he wasn't wasting time bagging crooks that the police could easily handle.

That's when I heard someone land on the roof behind me.

The scratching of feet on shingles, the grunt if a well-placed landing. I scrambled to my feet, being careful not to fall down the slope of the roof, as I turned around, smiling, "About time — Ah!"

I gasped, reeling back when I saw the newcomer was not, in fact, Spider-Man. I saw the red suit and the horns and I panicked, ducking behind the chimney. "Go away!"

“I mean no harm.” His voice was soft, almost apologetic, trying to soothe me. I heard him approach, steps cautious as he got closer. “Please, I just want to talk to you, that’s all.”

My mind was reeling. How the hell did he find me? My mind panicked, going on pure animal instinct, unable to conceive that this was in any way a good situation. Pressing my body against the brick column, I shouted, "What do you want?"

“Please don’t shout. It hurts my ears.” he said, still maintaining a low tone, despite my reaction. "I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

I slid further behind the chimney, breathing hard. What kind of so-called hero hunts down citizens like this, just to talk? Not even Spider-Man did that. "You know, good guys usually just build good PR by letting their actions speak for themselves. They don't try to settle things one-on-one."

"Somehow I get the feeling that my actions weren't as clear as I meant for them to be," he replied, sounding wry. "since you seem so convinced that I'm here to hurt you."

"This ain't my first rodeo. I don't appreciate being stalked, especially by the Devil."

"I really wish you wouldn't call me that," he muttered.

"Well, maybe you should've picked a better outfit."

"I never meant to scare you."

"Yeah, well, you botched that mission, didn't you?"

"Do you know anything else besides sarcasm?" The Devil asked, starting to sound a little beleaguered. What could I say? I was less than impressed with his execution.

"Are you kidding? I was born sarcastic."

"Very funny." He sighed, sounding defeated.

I saw his foot appear to my left and when the rest of him appeared, I quickly ducked around the corner, making sure to keep some distance between us. “Hey, I said stay back!”

The Devil came to an abrupt stop, sensing my movement. He raised a hand in a placating gesture. "I promise, God as my witness, I'm not here to hurt you."

He took another step forward. I flinched and had up a hand. "Yeah, right! You think I’m an idiot? Why should I believe a word you say?”

The Devil paused, his lips turning into a frown. Was he taking my panic seriously now? His blank gaze remained on me. He stayed silent.

So I spoke, breathing hard. "You think I don't know how this goes? I'm the only witness to a crime. You followed me before, and you followed me again. Here to clean up the mess. Make sure I don't snitch about what happened. Typical mob stuff."

"I'm not with the mob!" The Devil snapped immediately. I flinched again; that was the first time he actually sounded defensive — angry, _offended_ even, to be accused of association. "I only came here to explain myself. I imagine you heard the news."

"Oh, yeah. The men that you beat up. They're dead now." I said, nodding my head. I squinted at him. "You?"

"No. I would never take another life."

Funny enough, I believed him.  The righteousness, the sincerity. I peered a little further beyond the chimney, but remained cautious. "Then who did it? Who else knows?"

"I don't know," he replied, his head listing to the side. "I came here hoping you'd know. Who would be so interested in protecting you?"

"No one."

The Devil actually smiled, chuckling a little. "Forgive me if I don't believe you. Don't you have family? Anyone who'd have motive to, I don't know, protect you?"   

I thought of Peter, but I knew already that he neither had the skill nor the morals to do the thing my mystery 'protector' (if that's what we're going with) was capable of. And no one else knew of my relation to the Rose. "No. No family. The Rose took care of that."

"What about your parents?"

"Like I said, the Rose."

He paused, apparently taking that in with some measure of gravity. "They killed your parents? Why?"

"How should I know?" I asked, shrugging my shoulders. Sure, he wasn't technically right, but at this point what difference did it make? "It’s not like they sent me a letter. They took my mother and now I'm next, if I'm not careful."

"I'm sorry," he said. Quiet. Mournful. Like he actually knew how I felt.

I huffed and crossed my arms, leaning against the chimney. "Sorry's not gonna bring her back."

The Devil was silent for a long moment. Then I heard footsteps and a hand rested on my shoulder. This time I didn’t flinch away, but I refused to look at him.

He said, "Let me help you."

I scoffed, throwing off the hand. "You can't help me." I said, turning away and walking further out on the roof. I came to the edge and looked down at the street below. A lone taxi went by, its engine filling the air with a low hum as its tires carved up the muddy slush, but there was no one else on the streets.

The Devil remained a few paces behind me. "You want revenge."

It wasn't a question. I cast him a frown over my shoulder. "Is the Devil offering me a deal?"

"I _really_ don't like that name," he muttered, more to himself. Then he said, "I know you're putting yourself in danger. You think you're doing the right thing, but you're in over your head. Do you really think you can take down the Rose on your own?"

"I'm not in over my head," I whispered, crossing my arms.

"So you don't deny it."

I groaned, throwing my head back, turning back to him and throwing my arms out. "What, you think you can do better than me, what with your fancy suit and pretty little sticks?"

"You're not the only one who lost loved ones to the Rose," The Devil said, reproachful. "They're destroying this city from the inside out. It’s easy to lose yourself in this kind of battle.”

I opened my mouth to challenge him, but the Devil finished, “I know. I already have."

I looked him up and down, wondering just how bad his obsession must be. Apparently enough to dress yourself in a red demonic suit and beat people up in the street on a freezing winter night."So you want me to stop? Because I won't. I can't. You're too late."

But he just shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "No, Amelia, it hasn't. I can still see hope in you. The hope and spirit that they haven't taken away from you yet."

"H-how did you know my name?" I asked, taking a step back. My foot met the edge of the roof and I wobbled, uncertain. Whoever this guy was, he was serious business.

"I have my sources. They care about you, Amelia. And they’re worried.” He said, and I went down my mental list of all the people who could’ve possibly contacted this guy, but I came up with a blank. “Trust me when I say that you don't want to go down this road you're on."

"But I want to help people."

"There are police for that. Doctors. Lawyers. You're just a kid, Amelia. Don't throw your life away."

"I'm not a kid," I said, clenching my fists. Of course, just another adult thinking they knew better than me, like they were so much wiser. "You said you wanted to explain yourself? Then do it. Because nothing else you can to say is going to stop me."

He sighed, shoulders slumping a little when he realized I wasn't going to be convinced otherwise. He looked to the side, grimacing as he thought for a second. "Fine.”

The Devil took a deep breath, looked back at me. “I've been after the Rose for years now, keeping a low profile, making sure the media never gets a handle on me. It's been easier lately, with that Spider-Man taking up all the limelight. I've been taking the Rose down, bit by bit. It's been slow — they’re made up of cell groups that are easily replaced, and members aren't allowed to know more than their station is allowed. Loyalty is inspired through fear — No one knows all the secrets. No one, except for one man."

"Who?" I leaned forward, my breath locked in my throat. This was what I had been dying to hear for so long. Information that I never had, could never get.

"They call him the Kingpin," The Devil said, spitting the name out like it was a curse. "No one knows his real name — if he even exists at all. But he controls the entirety of the White Rose, all within Hell's Kitchen. He's a disease that's been festering since the 70's, slowly gaining power and reputation, with absolutely no one to stop him. He's the one who ruined my life. He's the one who took your parents."

"What did he do to you?" I asked, almost too scared to know. I could hear it in his voice that the Devil had personal motives for hunting down this Kingpin. I kind of guessed after he mentioned losing someone, like I did. But this felt deeper, even more personal than what happened to me.

But the Devil just shook his head. "It's my cross to bear. I don't want to drag you anymore into this than you already are."

"Then why do you say you want to help me? What could you do, besides trying to convince me to stop? What if I help you find this Kingpin —?”

"The Kingpin is _mine_." he said so sharply that I clamped my mouth shut in surprise. He swiped a hand through the air, saying, " _Do not_ get in my way. He’s my battle, not yours. I’m not going to let him hurt any more people if I can help it.”

“Damn, all right,” I said, holding up my hands and stepping away from him. “I get it. I’ll try my best not to get involved.”

“I need better than that, Amelia.”

I frowned at him. “I’m only doing this to find my mother. If the Kingpin hadn’t bothered with me in the first place, I wouldn’t even be here right now, talking to you.”

“I thought you said she was dead,” The Devil tilted his head at me, confused.

“I don’t know, she might be,” I shrugged helplessly, hugging myself. “But I can’t believe that. I won’t. I know she’s still out there. I won’t stop until I know for sure what happened.”

The Devil was silent for a while, gazing out over the city. Or maybe he would have been, if he had eyes. I had a feeling he was the brooding type, with all this grumpy thinking stuff — then he said, “What if I look for her instead?”

I gaped at him, my arms dropping to my sides. “What? You’d do that?”

“You didn’t believe me when I said I wanted to help you?” the Devil looked mildly amused at my shock. He smiled at me, looking genuinely pleased. “You’re better off staying out of trouble. I know it’s going to be hard for you, since you try so hard looking for it.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble!” I protested, but it was pointless. We both knew he was right, and I was just offended at being called out on it. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “Okay, okay, I do. But I’m not just going to sit back and let things happen. I’m still going to find a way to help.”

“If you must,” the Devil relented, shrugging one shoulder. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed on the right side of the law.”

“No promises.”

“Yes, I know. You’re bad at those.”

“Hey!”

“Relax, I’m joking,” the Devil held up a hand to calm me, and I was so stunned by his little chuckle that I couldn’t even find the will to be angry anymore. It was weird hearing him laugh. It just didn’t seem to fit with his image at all. “You take yourself a little too seriously, Amelia.”

“I take myself just seriously enough, thanks,” I scowled, folding my arms. “Is that all?”

The Devil considered for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad you listened. I don’t get many chances to speak for myself.”

I shrugged. “Not like I could do anything else. Are you going after the guy who killed those dirtbags who attacked me?”

“Maybe. If he works for the Kingpin, though, then we’ll have a bigger problem on our hands.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“What if who doesn’t?”  
  
“What if the killer doesn’t work for the Kingpin?” somehow, it just didn’t make sense to me. Why would he try to protect my identity — Peter’s identity? That’s not something a mob boss would keep close to his chest. He’d use it to his advantage. This was not how he’d do it. “What would that mean?”

“I don’t know,” The Devil said, sounding just as curious as I felt. “I suppose that means he’s working for someone else. Or maybe he’s got his own agenda.”

“To do with me?” I couldn’t think of anyone in my life willing to kill. Okay, except Eddie, but he wanted _me_ dead. “I don’t know anyone like that.”

“I guess it’s just another mystery waiting to be solved,” The Devil said thoughtfully. He cast me an enigmatic look. “Whatever it is, you’re at the center of it, Amelia. Be careful.”

And just like that, he was gone. A shadow into the mist.


	26. Sequere Pecuniam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh-heh I really like this chapter. You'll probably guess why once you're done reading it.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

**Chapter Twenty Six**

**Sequere Pecuniam**

* * *

 

 

 

A week later I found myself hunkered down in the rafters of an old warehouse in the Meatpacking district.

No, I was not allowed to be here.

No, this definitely wasn’t legal.

And no, Matt did not ask me to take it this far.

But what could I say? I was a rebel of the highest order. James Dean, eat your heart out.

Matt had sent me to do some low-level investigating. Just your classic tail; pretend to be some innocuous citizen and listen in to the target’s conversations, notate their phone calls, mark down the places they visit. Detectives got paid to do pretty much the same thing, although I imagined they had to deal with cheating spouses more over shady business dealings.

This specimen of moral degradation was called Hank Jenson, and he was a fine piece of work. Officially, he was a banker at Kings & Sons; unofficially, he may or may not be running an underground betting ring.

Matt and Foggy had taken on a client, a boxer by the name of Willy “Cotton-Ear” Baxtor, who apparently had a deal with Mr. Jenson — prize money as a down payment for an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen — but when he decided he wanted out, Mr. Jenson reneged and took all his money. Now Willy was looking to sue.

And our firm was the only one in the entire city willing to take up this utterly crazy case. No one else wanted to confront Kings & Sons; no one wanted to try. I had no idea what Matt and Foggy would do if they actually lost.

But Matt seemed so sure of it. He was convinced that if we could find some dirt on Mr. Jenson, proof that he was double-dealing, that Willy could get his money back.

And now here I am. I couldn’t believe it, but Matt was probably right.

I first started following Mr. Jenson after he left his apartment in the morning. He didn’t go anywhere strange, just picked up a coffee and donut and went to work. I would’ve done a stake-out if today wasn’t a school day, but luckily it ended before his shift did.

After he left work, he didn’t go straight home. Instead, he back to the same cafe that morning — this time I noticed him and the owner talking for a while; they seemed to be just good friends, but when they shook hands, a wad of bills passed between them.

I had a camera with me, lent from Foggy. He hadn’t been too excited I asked, but there was no way I could take Peter’s — or any of his broken ones.

Besides, I could take good care of it.

Granted, the casual exchange of hard cash didn’t really mean Mr. Jenson was some hotshot bookie, but it was still pretty suspicious. And, along with the other pictures I took today, it just served to prove him guiltier.

I had several more shots of him making similar exchanges with other people across town: a baker down on West 47th Street; a guy in a fancy suit from Wall Street; and a woman walking her dogs in Central Park.

That last one was particularly good. I managed to climb a tree about twenty feet away, getting an aerial view of them talking, as well as a close-in shot of the man’s notebook, which he kept taking out with each conversation. He clipped the dollar bills inside the pages, marking out different sections.

The picture was clear enough to read — names and number and short-hand scrawl. I didn’t know what it meant, but it definitely didn’t seem like normal banker stuff to me.

I wanted to know more, but that wasn’t really what I was here for. I was just supposed to get information. It was Matt and Foggy’s job to decide what it meant.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t go the extra mile.

Mr. Jenson’s latest stop was here. I had no idea why, because aside from the piles of boxes, there was no one in the warehouse. The man wandered around for a bit, checking the tags on the

“You look like you’re having fun.”

The voice made me jumped. I clapped a hand over my mouth to cover my mouth. Then I had to restrain myself from punching the idiot thief who snuck up on me almost ruined this entire endeavor.

I spun around, glaring at Smoke, who was leaning against a metal column like it was totally not weird or anything. “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice low. Things tended to echo in here.

“I could ask you the same question,” Smoke said with a shrug, then flashed me a white smile. It practically shone in the darkness. “Aren’t you trespassing on private property?”

I squinted at him, trying to figure out his play. This was definitely not good. “Never stopped me before. Why are you here? It’s not because of me.”

I knew this was a fact, but Smoke didn’t confirm right away. He tilted his head, curious. “How would you know? Maybe I’m just checking up on my favorite girl.”

I rolled my eyes and took another picture of Mr. Jenson, who was now checking the shipping manifest and writing something down. “So there are others then? I’m so flattered.”

Smoke made a noise of annoyance and I failed to hide my smirk. I didn’t always get under his skin, but when I did, it was priceless. “Come on, dove. I’m not that kind of guy.  
  
“You steal for a living.” I pointed out, creeping along the web of scaffolding so I was crouching almost directly over Mr. Jenson. With the manifest still open, I could get a good view of what he was doing. “You wear a mask. You don’t legally exist. Why would something as mundane as a monogamous relationship hold you down?”

Smoke followed me, his footsteps lighter than air, while I had to try hard to make big clanking sounds. I was jealous; how could he do that so easily, when he was bigger than me?

He dropped down in front of me so we were nearly face to face. There was a big fat grin on his face. “So you agree that this _is_ a relationship, then.”

I gave him a disgruntled look, and then smacked his shoulder. Distracted, Smoke was too busy wincing and rubbing his arm, and I dodged around him on the beam. He tried to grab me, but I slipped through his arms. “Keep dreaming, lover boy.”

“You know,” He whispered, following me as I tried to find another shot. “I never did get that thank you card.”

“Why does this always happen to me?” I muttered under my breath, then snapped at him. “This is _so_ not the time for this.”

“Well, I disagree,” Smoke said, staying just outside of punching-distance from me. “The basis of any healthy relationship is communication, so I think we should —”

“I am _not_ discussing this right now!”

Mr. Jenson looked up, startled by the noise we were making. I caught a gasp in my throat and went absolutely still. Smoke, a complete idiot, made to open his mouth, but I lunged forward and grabbed his face, shutting him up before he could say anything. I looked down again, wondering if we had been spotted.

Mr. Jenson’s gaze cast about, but he slid over us without another glance. Then he shrugged to himself and went back to the manifest.

As soon as I was sure we were safe, I looked back at Smoke, who just scowled at me while I kept hold of his face. I sighed and said, “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

He didn’t seem convinced, so I rolled my eyes and added, “I’ll admit, you can be adorable, sometimes. I’d love to make it up to you, but right now I’ve got work to do and I _really_ don’t need anyone messing it up for me, okay? So could you _please_ not give me a reason to pitch you off this bar?”

I felt him smile against my hand. “You think I’m adorable?”

“I said _sometimes_ , don’t you listen?” I snapped then paused and reconsidered this whole situation. “Wait, why the hell are you even here?”

“I got a job.” He shrugged.

I dropped my hand from his face, then jabbed a finger at Mr. Jenson. “Who? With _him_?”

When Smoke nodded, I smacked my head and almost smacked his, too. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Go talk to him already!”

“Why, so you can take my picture and give it to the cops?”

“You’re wearing a mask, idiot. Besides, this isn’t for the cops.”

“Then who?”

“The people who come after the cops.”

It took Smoke a second to figure it out, and I got to watch as the realization dawned on his face. He nearly gasped, too. “ _Lawyers_? You’re working for lawyers? I can’t believe it! You sold out!”

“I didn’t sell out!” I retorted, wanting to strangle him. Why were we still arguing? It was just one thing after another, and yet I couldn’t weasel my way out of it. “I don’t even know what that means! And besides, this is the best I can do right now, so excuse me for trying! Now go down there _before_ _I make you go down there!_ ”

“All right, all right,” Smoke held up his hands in surrender and I heaved a sigh of relief that this stupid fight was finally over. But when he cast me a sly grin, I realized it was only just the start. “But you and I really need to have a talk about being official.”

I knew he was only teasing but it still bugged the hell out of me, which was probably why I was such an easy target. Still, before I could even retort, Smoke was already gone, dropping down to the floor below.

I stuck my head out and hissed after him, “ _We’re not official!”_

He looked up and put a finger to his lips, smiling as if he caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. I just scowled and stuck my tongue out at him, because that’s what mature adults do, of course.

“Jenson, am I right?” Smoke said loudly, his voice carrying easily across the warehouse interior. Mr. Jenson, who hadn’t seen him coming, yelped and nearly jumped out of his socks. Smoke just laughed, approaching the man by not getting too close. “Hey, man, relax. You’re the one that called me, right?”

“Uh, y-yes,” Mr. Jenson stuttered and I found myself unimpressed. For a man at the center of a gambling ring, he sure as hell looked nervous. The man adjusted his collar, glancing around as though he suspected eavesdroppers (but I remained hidden, ha-ha). “You’re, uh, you’re that Smoke guy?”

“Yep, the one and only,” Smoke said, walking around Mr. Jenson with his arms wide open. I had to admit, I was rather pleased to see firsthand how Smoke dealt with clients. I kind of just thought he got a note in the email with a check and directions to his next target, but this was far more entertaining. “Why, is there a problem?”

“Uh, no, I just...” Mr. Jenson’s eye twitched. “I thought you’d be older.”

For a second, I thought I saw a look of annoyance cross Smoke’s face and I quickly got a shot of it on camera. One for the history books.

Smoke shrugged it off in a second. “Hm, I get it. Think you make a mistake?”

“N-no, I-I need you — specifically you — for this job,” Mr. Jenson shook his head, then raised the manifest in his hand. “There’s this guy — h-he owes me money. Money that-that I really need or...well, that’s not important. I need you to go to John Barzetti and get it back. I need it by tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Smoke paused, holding up a finger. “By John Barzetti, you don’t mean —”

“Yes, him,” Jenson nodded, looking about as terrified as Smoke did shocked.

Smoke hesitated, frowning. “...You’re messing with some powerful people, Jenson. Something like that is going to cost you a lot.”

“You get half!” Jenson said quickly, nodding his head and clutching the manifest to his chest. A drop of sweat slid off his brow. “Half of what Barzetti owes me.”

“And how much is that?”

“O-one-hundred thousand.”

I nearly dropped my camera. _One-hundred thousand?!_ Holy shit, who the hell bet that much for some lousy boxing? I never even heard of this Barzetti guy before. He must be some high baller to be tossing around that kind of cash.

Even Smoke did a double-take. “Damn, Jenson, just what kind of racket are you running here? You sure don’t play around.”  
  
“Yes, w-well,” Mr. Jenson shrugged, almost in a _eh-what-are-you-gonna-do_ sort of way. “That’s w-what happens in my line of b-business. D-deals are made, currency ex-exchanged...and then there are some things you just have to do yourself.”

It sounded so ominous, mostly because it was the only sentence that didn’t have Jenson stuttering. I frowned at the man who looked like he should be driving his kids to soccer practice instead of stealing from some rich rando named Barzetti. I wondered if something else was going on; well, whatever it was, Matt would find it, and bring it to court.

“Ah, a man who knows what he wants,” Smoke grinned, although I wondered if he saw the same thing I did. Or maybe he just didn’t care. That was a crap load of money, that’s for sure. “I like that. Of course, I’ll be happy to help. You’ll see your money by tomorrow afternoon.”

“No!” the man cried, jumping forward before Smoke could disappear. Smoke stopped and frowned at Jenson, who said in a softer voice, “N-no, I need it tomorrow morning, before — before the stocks open. You have to get it tonight. There’s no other time.”

“Hey, take it easy, I get it,” Smoke gestured with his hands, trying to calm Jenson down. “I can do it tonight, no problem.”

“And no witnesses!”

“Well, of course,” Smoke nodded, and even from here I could see him rolling his eyes.

“And don’t let the cops catch you!” Jenson added.

“My man, I’m not entirely sure you know how thievery works,” Smoke said, looking almost pained now. “The whole idea is to _not_ get caught, capiche? Trust me, I’ve done this a thousand times before, and they all went smoothly. This won’t be any different.”

“You sure?” Mr. Jenson’s voice wavered.

“Sure, I’m sure,” Smoke replied with a smile. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, my friend.”

And before Mr. Jenson could make another complaint or bring up another worrying point, Smoke disappeared.

Two seconds later, he was standing beside me, his arms crossed and overall looking pretty confident with himself. He nudged me with his elbow. In a whisper, he asked, “So, what’d you think? Pretty cool, right?”

“I suppose,” I said, shrugging as I got a few more pictures in. I had captured the entirety of the meeting on camera, although I wasn’t sure how much good they would be for Matt. “Kind of underwhelming to be honest.”

“Yeah, his kind show up every once and a while. Broke, desperate, and willing to do anything for my services,” Smoke shrugged like this somehow wasn’t a big deal or anything. Then he pointed at the floor, asking, “So everything that happened down there...that’s, uh, that’s off-limits, right?”

“Of course,” I said lightly, which only made him frown further. “Mr. Jenson’s got other problems at the moment. Things to do with lawyers. Like the kind I’m working for.”

“So you’re not going to bust in and ruin my day, are you?”

“Surprisingly, I’ve got better things to do than clean up your messes all the time.” I said. Mr. Jenson started moving farther down the aisle and I got up to follow him, but then Smoke grabbed my wrist and pulled me back. I barely managed to smother a yelp before I found myself right up against Smoke.

I spluttered in surprise, trying to step away, but only ended up between him and a column. So not only was I trapped (okay, not really, but come on, I knew what he was trying to do), and now my face was completely red thanks to our totally not school-appropriate proximity.

“Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” he asked with that stupid smirk.

I was about to throw a fist at him, but my other hand was carrying the camera, so I could only clench it in barely-contained rage and frustration. Still, I bit it back, speaking through gritted teeth. I raised the camera. “I have to deliver these pictures.”

Smoke plucked the camera from my hand before I realized what he was doing. I tried to snatch it back, but at my height and my position, I couldn’t reach it, and he just held it over my head like he was playing a game. “Oh, come on, that can wait, can it? What’s a few extra minutes to some small-town lawyers?”

“Just give it back, please!” I said, trying not sound like I was begging and maybe not achieving it so well. I jumped up, trying to get it, but Smoke just lifted it higher, tilting the camera back as he looked through the images on its screen. “Smoke, please, that’s not even mine! If you break it —”

“Break it, me? Give me some credit,” he scoffed, stopping at a particular image and examining it for a second. “Huh, that’s actually a pretty good shot of me, especially considering its not my good side.”

“Yeah, I’m not seeing it, either,” I said, scowling and leaning back against the column, defeated.

“Well, now that’s just mean.”

“What do you _want_ , Smoke?”

“I just wanted to talk!” he protested, like I was accusing him of some crime. He handed me back the camera and I snatched it away, tucking it behind my back so he couldn’t get it again. “Since we’re official now.”

I gave him a weird look, trying to think when _that_ happened. “We are _not_ official.”

“But we can be!” Smoke said, so earnest it almost made me smile. “Because let’s be honest: I like you, and you like me, even though you’re too much of a stick in a mud to admit it. So what’s the big deal?”

I gave him a beleaguered look. “You know what.”

Smoke tilted his head, thinking on it for a minute. Then he frowned and pointed at his face, “What, the mask? _That’s_ the dealbreaker for you?”

“I don’t know what you look like!” I shot back, wondering why he didn’t see how this was such a big deal for me. “Or at least not all of you. And it’s not fair, since you already know what I look like. You even know my real name! And I know, like, next to _nothing_ about you. Except that you dress in black and like to steal things.”

“And that I’m roguishly handsome.”

I rolled my eyes, skipping that point. “Nothing is happening until you take off that mask.”

I could pinpoint the exact moment when all humor left Smoke’s face. He closed his eyes and sighed, “I can’t. And you know why.”

“Yeah, I do.” I actually wanted him to do it. I didn’t know why — _did_ I want...us to be official? Maybe. Despite everything, Smoke wasn’t a completely terrible person, he had a sense of humor, I could tolerate him most of the time, and he wasn’t half-bad looking either. In an attempt to ease the pressure, I added, “Look, I’m not asking you to tell me your real name. I’m pretty sure ‘Smoke’ isn’t it, anyways. But that’s fine. I just want to see your face.”

But he just shook his head, stepping away from me. “It’s too dangerous. For the both of us. I’m sorry — I know I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I know too much about you. Who knows, it might just kill you, too.”

“Well, I have a pretty solid record of not-dying, so far,” Now _I_ was the one trying to lighten the mood. Go figure. I took a step forward, raising my free hand towards him. “Please, you know I’m not going to tell anyone —”

But Smoke batted my hand away, saying, “Whoa, you are _not_ pulling that _Phantom of the Opera_ trick on me. I’m not that dumb.”

“I wasn’t going to do that,” I said, offended, even though that was _exactly_ what I was thinking. I just wasn’t sure if I could actually make myself do it, or if it would even be worth it. I decided that I’d rather keep what we had now for as long as I could than lose everything forever. I pulled back my hand, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just — what do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Smoke shrugged, looking back at me. “Part ways and hope for the best?”

“I seriously doubt that this is the last time I’m seeing you,” I said dryly.

Then he smiled that old smile again, and I swore it was almost like we weren’t just having the conversation we had. “Wouldn’t dream of it, dove. Stay alive for me, will you? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably stop quoting Eighties movies, maybe,” I suggested with my own little smile. It made me feel like I was just offering up my whole heart on a platter.

“But those ones are the best!” Smoke said. Then he jumped forward and, cupping my face, kissed me on the forehead. Like a total goober, I laughed, before remembering my dignity and tried swiping him away, but by then Smoke had already disappeared.

“It’s still not official!” I called after his shadow.


	27. Cui Bono

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I recently started watching How to Get Away with Murder on Netflix, and it totally assuaged my worries that what Amelia did in the last chapter was unbelievable. Because holy crap, those law students are willing to do WAY more than just climb a tree or break into an empty warehouse to get what they need for a case.
> 
> Also, no spoilers. I just started watching and I will be very mean if you decide to spoil it for me.
> 
> And by that, I mean I won't update. So don't test me - I can be petty when I want to be *Evil laugh*

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Cui Bono**

* * *

 

 

 

I got back to _Nelson & Murdoch_ just as Foggy was locking the door behind him.

He, Matt, and Karen were laughing together, making plans for after-work drinks and sharing a few inside jokes — apparently Foggy is a bit of a lightweight. The whole scene made me feel like they were overall more like friends than coworkers, but that hardly registered as I came skidding to a stop in front of them.

"Whoa, there, speedster," Foggy laughed, holding up his hands as I took a second to catch my breath. "What did you do, run here all the way from Wall Street?"

"Kinda," I took a deep breath before handing him his camera. "Got the photos you wanted. Jenson's definitely up to fishy stuff, but I don't really know what it all means. It'll probably look better once you print them out."

"How did it go?" Matt asked as Foggy and Karen started looking through the photos on the camera, squinting to see them better. "You sound out of breath. Is it urgent?"

"N-no," I said, standing up straighter. "Well, I mean, maybe, I don't know."

"Hey, wait, stop there. This looks like a warehouse." Karen said, pointing at the screen. She frowned curiously. "That's a high angle. What did you do, climb onto the roof."

"Um. Maybe."

" _Amelia_ ," Matt groaned in what I was starting to recognize as his Beleaguered Disapproval tone that one usually reserves for an annoyingly precocious child. The Doc had something similar and it made me wince. "I thought I told you to not get into any trouble."

"I didn't! He didn't even know I was there."

"Wicked chops, man!" Foggy, of course, didn't see the problem at all, instead offering a high five; I took it, which resulted in Matt smacking Foggy with his cane.

"Don't encourage her, Foggy!" he said, making a face. "It's bad enough we had you tailing a potentially dangerous defendant. Did you really have to trespass onto private property?"

"I got something, didn't I?" I shot back, a little offended. "Besides, I've met waitresses scarier than Jenson. He couldn't even get a whole sentence out straight when he was talking to that other guy."

"The one in the mask?" Foggy asked, frowning at the images. "Who is this guy? Did you get a name?"

"No," I lied, which I thought was pretty smooth, but Matt tilted his head at me, focusing a little too hard for a blind guy, in my opinion. I glanced back before adding, "But I did hear most of their conversation. Jenson hired the other guy to steal some cash owed to him. He's pretty desperate — he needs it by tomorrow morning."

"Who's he stealing it from?"

"I don't know, some guy named Barzetti."

" _Barzetti_?" all three adults said at the same time, making me jump.

"Barzetti?" Karen said again, giving me a wide-eyed look. "As in Barzetti the Butcher?"

"Whoa, what? You know him?"

"Are you kidding?" Foggy snorted, but he looked more nervous than sarcastic. "I wrote my dissertation on that guy. He's a freaking legend in the legal world."

I couldn't imagine what for, but I figured any guy named "the Butcher" wasn't favored for his personality. "Why? What did he do?"

"He was charged with the murders of over a dozen people," Matt replied, grim. "Paid by the White Rose, back in the Eighties. And despite the overwhelming evidence against him, Barzetti was never indicted. He still lives here, in Manhattan."

"You sure as hell don't steal from him," Karen added emphatically, as if the very idea were stupid. "That's just asking to get yourself killed."

"Killed?" I repeated softly, my stomach dropping. Oh, my god. Did Smoke know any of this? Did he have any idea of what he got himself into? Did Jenson?

"I don't think Jenson wants Barzetti's money," Matt said, earning surprised looks from everyone.

"What are you talking about?" Foggy fixed him with a strange look.

"I'm saying," Matt took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. "Why do you send anyone to a person named the Butcher?"

A swollen, frigid silence fell between the group, knowing the answer but unable to say it. Luckily, Matt didn't seem to have that problem. "That thief is like an animal slaughter. Whoever he is, the White Rose wants him dead."

 _No no no no no_.

"We have to help him!" I blurted, suddenly overwhelmed with panic. It was already dark out — if Smoke hadn't already gone to Barzetti, then he would soon. "We have to do something?"

"Like what?" Foggy held out his arms, helpless. "We're just some small-time lawyers. I'm not messing with the Butcher!"

"We could call the cops," Karen suggested, a well-meaning but entirely useless suggestion.

I was already shaking my head. "No way. They won't get there fast enough and, who knows, half of them probably work for the Rose anyways. Where does the Butcher live?"

"He's got an apartment in the Waldorf," Foggy said, nearly automatic. I guess it would be easy to remember if you spent a whole dissertation on him.

"Amelia, no," Matt said at the same time, already figuring out what I was planning to do. It was too late, though, because I had already turned around. "Amelia!"

"Gotta go!" I shouted behind me as I burst out the front door of the offices, while the three adults freaked out behind me. Matt was already demanding Karen call 911, while Foggy suggested funerary design.

I couldn't stop and explain myself — Matt had already made himself clear on the stance of what I was not supposed to do on this job; specifically, don't put myself in danger, don't get personally involved, don't save lives myself. I was going to be in so much trouble when I got back — if I even had a job by then, but right now I didn't care. Being unemployed seemed like a small price to pay so long as Smoke didn't die. I couldn't trust anyone else to get this done.

Because who else knew about Smoke? Who else could convince him not to do this? Who else could reach him in time?

* * *

 

As a New Yorker, the Waldorf-Astoria building was one of those places you always dreamed of living in. Even if you were too proud to admit it (like me), you wanted the prestige, the luxury, the _space_ to live and relax and sleep well in. In the Waldorf, you didn't have to worry about a break-in, false cameras, or lazy security guards. There was a concierge, a restaurant, even private parking.

For some, it was just another five-star hotel. For others, like Barzetti, it was home.

I ran there faster than any taxi could take me, but I didn't realize the problem until I finally got to the Waldorf. I couldn't fly to the right apartment, and I sure as hell wasn't going to walk in through the front doors, and get my face caught on film.

But it barely slowed me down. Apparently sneaking into buildings was starting to become a trend for me, because I was already heading down one dark end of the Waldorf, looking for a side entrance, when I ran into someone.

He had been waiting for me, I knew, because he had been standing directly under the light of the loading dock. I skidded to a stop at the sight of him, my boots slipping on ice I didn't see.  "What are you doing here?"

"You know why." said the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. His arms were crossed and he was scowling something fierce. "What do you think you're doing, going after the Butcher?"

"H-how did you...?" I shook my head. I didn't know how he found these things out, but I didn't care. I didn't have any time to waste. "No, never mind. I'm not here for the Butcher!"

"Then who? The thief?"

I hesitated, frowning at him. The Devil seemed to be implying something that I didn't like. But I stopped caring about propriety, too, so I just snapped, "Yeah, sure, he's my friend! He's not the sharpest nail in the box, but he doesn't deserve to _die_! So you can get out of my way, because I'm going in there and nothing's going to stop me!"

I went straight for the door and, surprisingly, the Devil let me. But when I reached for the handle, he caught my hand, and I was caught off guard by how strong he was. Strong enough that I couldn't easily pull away.

"Wait," he said. "I can't let you go in there by yourself."

“I can take care of myself."

"I'm not going to believe you no matter how many times you say that," he retorted, and before I could claim that they had healed, the Devil added, "I want to help. The Butcher's evaded justice long enough. And I don't want you or your friend to get hurt. Let me go first."

I closed my mouth, eyeing the Devil as I considered the request. After a moment, I nodded, pulling my hand away from the door. Mollified, the Devil grabbed the handle instead, yanking the door open and darting inside. He was incredibly light on his feet and I stumbled in my attempt to follow him.

We entered a back hallway, which felt oddly normal and quiet for a part of the uber-fancy Waldorf. The floors were cement and the lights were fluorescent, casting a soft yellow tinge on the cold, narrow hallway.

I had only been wearing a rather thin military jacket (actually, it was the same one I bought out of necessity back in December) and hoodie underneath, so I wasn't exactly dressed for the weather. It allowed me to be fast without overheating when running for my life, but now, creeping along a empty hallway like I was in a James Bond movie, had me shivering to the bone.

We made our way to a metal stairwell (an unused fire exit, if I had to guess), when I finally asked, "Wait, do you know what apartment Barzetti's in?"

"It's on the fifteenth floor."

I had to keep myself from sighing out loud. The Devil still managed to catch it, though, and cast me a shallow smile. "You'd rather take the elevator?"

I cast him an annoyed look. "I like my dignity, thanks."

"Of course."

And thus began the fast climb up the stairs. I took them two at a time, while the Devil took a page out of Spider-Man's book — he hopped from banister to banister, scaling multiple floors in a manner of seconds. I just scowled in resentment — I would've done that, too, you know, if I could.

It was then I realized what my role was in all of this. Next to the Devil, I was the tagalong kid who always dragged the story down with their wild, immature antics. It was less Batman & Robin and more like Superman's Jimmy Olsen.

Good lord, I was the annoying kid sidekick in all of this. How humiliating.

I didn't have long to dwell on it, though, because at that point we had already reached the fifteenth landing, with the Devil already on the other side of the door, checking both ways for any witnesses. When he deemed it safe, he allowed me through.

"Whatever happens next," he said to me as I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. This was a lot of exercise for one day — I almost started to wonder if I was pushing myself. "I want you to say behind me —"

_Bang!_

The sound echoed down the hall, making the both of us jump.

“Smoke!” I cried, knowing what it meant. The Devil was already taking off down the hall. He stopped in front of a door on the left, and before I could catch up, he slammed his shoulder into it; the door gave way like it was made of toothpicks and he fell through.

More gunshots, shouting, and the sound of glass breaking. By the time I had reached the door and pulled myself inside, the apartment was a mess.

The Devil was nowhere to be seen — a cold breeze chilled my skin, and I spotted the broken window at the far end of the room, long gauzy curtains twisting in the wind. The room was dark, but I didn't need to light to see how absolutely luxurious this apartment was. The carpet beneath my feet was plush, marred by glass and mud; the chairs filling the living room were covered in a silvery brocade upholstery, and the furniture had a distinct Rococo style that made me immediately dislike everything there was to living in the Waldorf.

Yeah, it was petty. But who the hell needed gilded tea-trays? Since this was Barzetti's place, I didn't feel too bad about ruining anything.

Speaking of which, I had no idea where the Butcher was, either. I could hear him, though, somewhere outside, fighting with the Devil. I had no idea how they could've survived a fall like that, before I remembered that the building was tiered, and they would've landed somewhere down on the roof below.

I wandered over to the broken window, sticking my head out to look down. There was even less light out there, but I could see two forms fighting several floors down, the Devil with his batons and the Butcher with, well, his knives. The Butcher himself was huge, bigger than the Devil by at least a hundred pounds, more meat than muscle but just as scary. He was slower than the Devil, but his punches made me wince. Each time the Butcher landed a hit on the Devil, he went down.

I considered helping somehow, until I heard a groan behind me. Startled, I glanced over my shoulder, then back down at the fight. The Devil was getting back up, relentless, and I decided that maybe I was better off not getting involved.

Turning around, I scanned the room, trying to find the source of the sound. My heart pounded in my throat, the sound of the gunshot still echoing in my ears.

Barzetti would only attack if Smoke was already here. But was Smoke hurt? I knew bullets couldn't hurt him, if he managed to phase at the right time...

But Smoke had no idea this was a trap. He probably thought Barzetti wasn't even here. Why would he stay phased if he thought he was safe?

"Smoke?" I called out, hoping there wasn't any other Rose thugs lying in wait.

Something shifted in the dark to my right and I edged around a couch, keeping my distance in case it was bad. But I heard another sound, like a whisper, and spotted something on the floor against the far wall, by a doorway that led to the kitchen.

"Smoke!" I gasped, recognizing him instantly. I nearly tripped over myself in my rush to reach his side, sliding to my knees. I could barely see him in the darkness, but I could tell something was definitely wrong. I could hear him breathing and it was ragged, and my knees fell into something warm and wet. "Oh, my god! You're bleeding everywhere!"

"Hey, dove," Smoke rasped, managing a pain smile as he clutched his side. "It's...just a flesh wound. I'll be — I'll be fine."

“Are you kidding me?" I snapped, furious and terrified at the same time. I shrugged off my coat and pulled my sweater over my head, bunching it up and pressing it against his side, making Smoke wince and complain. The wound seemed to be just above his hip. "Jesus, you're lucky he didn't get your head! Did you know?"

"Did I know what?" Smoke grimaced, trying to prop himself up, his hands slipping in his own blood. Even in the dim light, I could see his face was pale, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. He looked strange, besides all that, and it took me a minute to realize he wasn’t wearing his mask.

I couldn’t even fathom where it had gone. Maybe Barzetti had something to do with it. The only thing I could think of at the moment was that his eyes looked a lot bigger without the mask on, and that just made me feel worse.

"That is was a trap, you idiot! The Rose set you up!"

"Well, I do _now_ ," Smoke muttered. He tried pushing my hands away, but he was so weak he might as well not done anything at all. "Take it easy, dove. I've had worse."

"You're even dumber than I thought." My words were mean, but they were coming from a place of panic, and I didn't know what else to say. I looked up and around, trying to find a phone. "I need to call an ambulance!"

"No!" He grabbed my hand, suddenly envigored, and when I looked back at him, Smoke's gaze was intense. "Y-you can't. They'll find me there. It'll be that much easier to kill me."

"You're already dying —"

"I'm not dead yet," he scowled, before closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. Smoke took deep breaths, and each one seemed harder than the last. Then, after a moment of either exhaustion or contemplation, Smoke opened his eyes and said, "Jersey City."

"What?" my voice trembled. I couldn't help it, and I felt so stupid and weak and helpless.

"I have friends..." Smoke said. "In Jersey City. C-call them. The number — the number is..."

His eyes closed and I realized he had gone unconscious. Panicked that I was losing him and scrambled to my feet, deciding to get that phone after all. "Smoke, hold on!"

It took a horribly long time to find a phone, but eventually I did, after upending several tables, knocking over a lamp, and banging my knee — but none of it registered when I got back to Smoke and shook him awake. "Smoke, stay with me! Stay with me! Wake up, damn it!"

I slapped him across the face, hard. Smoke jolted, yelping before fixing me with an annoyed look. "Was that really...necessary?"

"Just tell me the number to your friends! Can they pick you up?"

"Y-yes, it's..." Smoke pressed a hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. When he pulled away, traces of blood were left on his face. He pressed the hand back on my ruined sweater, and I added my own to it. His skin was already getting cold. "201-555-2370...when it picks up, just say 'Son, can you play me a memory?'"

" _Piano Man_?" I demanded, catching on fast. "Seriously? My god, I never knew you were such a hack."

"Hey, come on," Smoke shifted in discomfort. "It's a classic."

"It's overdone."

"What are you, a critic? Just call them already."

"Already am," I said, bringing the phone to my face as the call started going through. Even though I was scowling so hard it hurt, I didn't take my hand off of Smoke's face, and I kept my hand over his. There was a _click_ as someone picked up, but no voice. I waited a long, silent second before realizing it was my cue. "Son, can you play me a memory?"

I almost said it sing-song, but didn't, so the words sounded ultra weird. Luckily, though, it was the right thing to say, because a female voice on the other end replied, "I'm not really sure how it goes."

I paused, not knowing what to do next. Smoke whispered, "Location. Give them our location."

I blinked and, with less composure than I liked, I said, "Waldorf-Astoria, Manhattan. Fifteenth floor. Broken window."

I added that last part in case it wasn't already obvious how to find him. The woman on the other end said, "Five minutes," before hanging up and I dropped the phone, no longer needing it. Already I could hear sirens in the distance, overpowering the sounds of the fight between the Devil and Barzetti. I had no idea who was winning, but I decided I wouldn't mind it so much if Barzetti "accidentally" fell off the side of the building.

"They'll be here soon," I told Smoke, pressing a hand to his face so he'd focus on me and stay alert. His eyes fluttered and his hands lost all tension. I didn't know how long he had left. My voice trembled again and I couldn't stop the burning behind my eyes. "It's-it's going to be alright, okay? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

"Why do you always make promises you can't keep?" Smoke laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. "I guess we can call it even now."

I almost forgot what he was talking about, before I remembered his request earlier today. A part of me was annoyed that he could even be thinking about that at a time like this, but the other part of me wanted to play along, like nothing was wrong. "I should at least get flowers." I sniffed.

"Really? I didn't think...I didn't think you liked flowers."

"Yeah. Well, not roses."

Smoke snorted. "God, no. No roses, I promise."

"I like — I like sweet pea. They're my favorite."

"Sweet pea," Smoke closed his eyes, his voice starting to fade. "Got it."

In the distance, I could hear the distance whirr of a chopper's engines. I looked out the windows, saw a light in the sky getting nearer and nearer. A part of me thought it was police, but I knew it wasn't. Whoever Smoke's friends were, they didn't have long before the actual police freaked out about unauthorized aircraft in the area.

As it approached, I realized that this might be the last time I ever saw Smoke alive. The thought sent a jolt of desperation through me and I turned back to him, the words already on my tongue. "Smoke, I —"

"Amelia," he cut me off, although I wasn't sure he even heard me in the first place. His gaze was unfocused, but he was looking at me, his breathing short and uneven. "B-before I go, you need to know something."

"W-what?" I clutched his hands tighter, leaning in. I was a little frustrated I didn't get to say what I wanted to say, but it could wait for this.

"I know," he said. "I know who leads the White Rose. His name..."

Smoke seemed to stop breathing for three long seconds, and in a long moment I wondered if it was too late. At first, I didn't know what to do, but it turned out I didn't have to do anything — Smoke took another, shuddering breath before he could finally finish his sentence.

"His name is Wilson Fisk."


	28. Lux et Lex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's about three episodes left to this, as I'm writing, and I think I'm going to make it two chapters per episode to make it easier on myself. So, we'll probably be done at about 34 chapters. Yay!
> 
> I think what I'm going to do with the final sequel is write is as a 'movie'. Like some TV series end with a movie to finish things off, I think that's what I want to do here. One plotline, no episodes, just straight up one major conflict that she'll have to deal with (concerning a very important figure of her past), that will involve the other characters and maybe a few subplots, but not enough to slow it down too much. I'm thinking maybe 12 to 15 chapters, just to keep things from getting heinously long.
> 
> I don't usually make these warnings, but there's some harsh language in this chapter, so be warned. I think I'll change the rating to T, if I haven't already.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**Lux et Lex**

* * *

 

 

Several weeks later, and I still hadn't found anything on Wilson Fisk.

He was a ghost. I couldn't find any records of him anywhere — not from people, not in the library, not online. Google didn't seem to believe he even existed. Even worse, I had no idea how old this guy was, what he might look like, anything that identified him more than just a name.

It seemed like progress, only it wasn't. I was still back on square one with this guy. I might as well never have gotten the name at all.

I hadn't heard from Smoke either, which worried me more. I spent time in class just thinking about him, worry constantly what might have happened. Teachers started to notice my lack of attention, and I got another detention for giving lip when they criticized me. Peter, Gwen, and Harry started to notice, to the point they tried to stage an impromptu intervention during lunch.

I knew I was in for it as soon as I approached the lunch table and saw that they were all waiting patiently for me to join. I hesitated before setting my food tray down, frowning. "Uh, okay, why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

"Just sit down, Amy," Gwen suggested with a wincing smile. I still had a hard time getting used to her non-glasses look, with the straight hair and new clothes. Mary Jane had certainly done a number on her. I also didn't fail to notice the way how Harry's hand was on top of hers — wait, when did _that_ happen?

I obeyed, sitting down opposite them and not feeling any better. "What's this about, guys? Why are you looking at me like I just killed someone?"

"This is the _ninth_ detention you've had since the start of semester," Gwen told me, as if that had somehow escaped my consciousness.

I tried to play it cool, though. "So?"

" _So_?" Harry snorted, disbelieving. "You've never had a detention before in your life, and now nine in two months? You broke Astor's arm! What's going on?"

"I...I'm..." I couldn't form the right words, then threw a hard look at Peter, who hadn't said anything yet. _He_ knew what was going on, but of course sharing such information would be kind of bad. "It's just been kind of hard...lately. A lot of stuff happening."

"Like what?" Gwen raised an eyebrow.

_Oh, I don't know. Just regular vigilante things. Losing control of my temper and my powers, getting stabbed, almost dying, finding out dead men are still alive, that the police are corrupt; or how about Venom, the symbiote, which may or may not still be out there. And let's talk about my mom, how she's still missing, or the fact that Smoke almost died, too, maybe he is, I don't know, I haven't heard from him in weeks. Did you know that the leader of the White Rose is a man named Wilson Fisk? Yeah, never heard of him either._

"...Amy? Amy, hello?" Gwen's voice jerked me back out of me reverie, and I blinked at her. She raised her eyebrows at me, holding out a hand. "Are you going to tell us what's going on or what?"

I glowered at my food, working my mouth and trying to find an answer that would work. "I've just been...thinking a lot about my mom, recently."

That was as close to the truth as it was going to get. It worked, though; Gwen and Harry exchanged looks, shifting uncomfortably at the mention of a topic we rarely discussed. Actually, I don't think we ever talked about it, it was just sort of danced around like an ugly chair no one wanted to sit in.

A part of me hated that they were afraid to bring it up. Like I was some live wire ready to explode at any mention of the wrong topic.

Then again, maybe they were right to be afraid. I barely trusted myself half the time.

"Have you...been talking to that therapist?" Peter asked, making a face because he knew it was a stupid question. No,  I wasn't, and I hadn't been for a while.

"Yes," I said, because that's what Gwen and Harry needed to hear. "But it barely seems to help."

"You can't give up, Amy," Harry said, and I was surprised by how earnest he looked. It didn't occur to me until then that he might have personal experience with stuff like this. "It helped me, Amy. If I didn't see someone, Dad would've never let me come back. It's not great, exactly, but it's better than it used to be. You just have to keep trying."

I took this to heart, perhaps more than I wanted to. I didn't want to disappoint them; I didn't want my friends thinking I was broken and helpless against my own nature.

But they were so far out of their depth it felt stupid to try. "...I suppose. But that doesn't mean I'm going to like it."

"We're here for you, Amy," Gwen gave me a reassuring smile, and I felt compelled to return it. "We're your friends, that's what we do. Right, Pete?"

"Uh, yeah, right," Peter stuttered, shaking his head. I had noticed that he, too, had been zoning out a lot — more frequently now, and I was starting to think it was because Harry was back. And I was starting to think why.

The rest of lunch went amiably, at least. No one talked about my mom (no surprise there), and we left the conversation behind without another reference. While I tried my best to appear normal so they wouldn't bring it up again, Peter continued to be withdrawn, and it was hard not to ask him what was wrong in front of Harry and Gwen.

The two seemed to be shy about each other, like the relationship wasn't exactly official — but it was there, all right. The PDA hadn't become insufferable yet like it had with Peter and Liz, so that was good. I still kind of had a hard time wrapping my head around it. When did they become (not) official? Maybe it had been around the time of the auditions...and when were those?

I was frustrated with myself for being so out of touch with even the people I cared about. What a great friend I was, right?

Surprisingly, I didn't feel too much better for the rest of the day. But I still had a million questions swirling in my head, and I couldn't shake them off.

I finally got the answer to one of them in Biology class with Peter. The class was fairly loud as we worked on the textbook questions; sitting next to Peter, my question wasn't easily overheard by anyone else. "What's going on with you? You seem distracted lately."

"It's..." Peter made a face, rubbing the back of his head, keeping his gaze focused on his work. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"It's not _nothing_ ," I hissed, placing my hand over his textbook so he couldn't ignore me. Peter looked up and gave me an irritated look, so I said, "Come on, something's bugging you, I can tell."

Peter just exhaled through his nose, palming his hand over his face. Then he leaned in a little closer, bringing his voice down a little. "I think — I think the Green Goblin is back."

I stared at him. "B-but Harry's all right! He's better!"

"I don't know, it's just a feeling I have," Peter shook his head, looking unsure of himself. "Something about all this. I just get this feeling that something bad is about to happen."

"What, like your Spidey Sense or something?"

"Y-yeah, I think so."

"Hmm," I scratched my pencil thoughtfully on my paper. "I think you're right. I think things are going to get worse before they're going to get better."

Then after a moment of consideration, I asked him, "You ever heard of a guy named Wilson Fisk? They call him the Kingpin."

Peter threw me a curious look. "No, why?"

"Someone...someone told me that's the guy in charge of the White Rose," I whispered, and Peter's eyebrows shot way up. "Yeah, I know. But I tried looking for him — I can't find anything! I feel like I'm chasing a wild goose or something."

"Who told you?"

"You know that friend of mine?"

"You mean the one that likes you?"

I threw him a disgruntled look, before admitting, "Yeah, him. He almost died telling me, too, so I have reason to believe he knows what he's talking about."

"What are you going to do now?" Peter asked.

I frowned at my textbook. "I don't know."

  

* * *

 

 

I wanted to believe Smoke was still alive, but I wouldn't be sure until I got a message, which after this long, I was starting to believe was never going to happen.

Doctor Banner seemed to believe he might be all right; he himself was proof that Smoke had other friends, people not involved with the White Rose. I still felt stupid for not bringing Smoke to him; maybe he could've helped Smoke the same way he helped me.

But the Doc said it best: "The past is the past. You can't focus on your mistakes. Just figure out how to make it better."

So that's what I planned on doing.

I decided to go to the police. It was stupid, it was insane, but it was the only thing I could think of. And after Gwen's offer for help, I realized I could still trust her dad, Captain Stacy, out of everyone on the force. I knew that of all people, _he_ wouldn't be so easily bought by mobs or corrupt politicians.

With me, I brought the photos I took for Nelson & Murdock. It turned out they didn't need it, as Jenson had mysteriously paid up without even the case reaching court. Matt, Foggy, and Karen had no idea why the guy folded so easily with little pressure on their part, but a success was a success, and they could finally pay that heating bill and take the office out of the freezing hell it had been stuck in since November.

I asked first, of course. Well, kind of. Foggy and Karen seemed okay with it, but Matt hadn't been there. A part of me suspected he wouldn't want me to do this, that I should let someone else do it, but I didn't want to wait around for a volunteer; Captain Stacy needed to see these as soon as possible.

I walked into the downtown precinct, the front office was hub of activity. The front benches were full of people waiting to be processed: druggies, big guys in leather jackets, some drunk people. Officers were carting others back and forth, while a woman behind a caged desk was scribbling something on a clipboard.

She glanced in mild disinterest when I approached, before going back to her work. In an entirely dull tone, she asked, "Can I help you with something, hon?"

"Uh, yeah, I need to see Captain Stacy. Is he here?"

The woman looked up at me again, a frown marking her previously bored expression. "You got an appointment or something? Who are you?"

"C-can you just tell him that Amelia Fletcher is here to speak to him?" I said, rocking back and forth on my feet. The photos were burning a hole in my backpack, and I kept looking around, wondering which cop around here was a corrupt. "It — It's important."

"All right, but I ain't making no promises," the woman muttered, reaching for her phone and pressing a button. She spoke quietly on the phone for a few seconds, perhaps relaying my message, before placing back the phone and turning back to me with a truly impressed look on her face. "Well, you have some interesting friends, girly. Go on up, the Captain's waiting in his office."

I nodded shortly before heading towards the elevator, trying to shake off the feeling of being watched. It followed me, even while I was alone in the elevator.

It dinged when I reached the tenth floor, home of the homicide division. The doors opened up to a bullpen of desks and detectives, writing reports and making phone calls and talking to witnesses. I started forward, walking past them as I headed for the office on the other side of the room — a few detectives looked up as I passed by, but none tried to hail me down or ask what I was doing here.

The door was cracked open, and I prodded with my finger, peering in. I saw Captain Stacy was standing by the window, looking out and apparently deep in thought.

"Um, Captain Stacy?" I said, stepping in, hoping I didn't intrude on something important. The guy let me up, after all, but I wondered what he was thinking at the moment. I was still somewhat jarred by what he told me after the Venom attack. "I'm not...you're not busy, are you?"

"Amelia, no, come in, it's fine," Captain Stacy waved a hand, shaking his head as though to clear it. He turned around to face me, a weary but genuine smile on his face. "What brings you to the precinct? Is it about Gwen? She told me you got another detention —"

"Uh, no, no," I jolted, surprised he brought that up. What the heck, Gwen told him about that? _When?_ How? I literally just got that detention today, and it had been a pain in the ass waiting for it to be over so I could head over here. "It's not about Gwen. I've been, uh, working with as an intern at a law firm lately, Nelson & Murdock —"

"Oh, yeah, I've heard of them. For a small set-up, they've definitely been making the rounds." Captain Stacy's eyebrows shot up, but it was less judgy and more pleased. He went over to his desk, righting a tiny statue of Lady Justice, before sitting in his chair. "It's nice to see you taking an interest in criminal justice. To be honest, I wasn't sure you had any interest in the law."

The unwitting truth in that statement made me flush a little, and I fumbled with my backpack, trying to get it off. "I, uh, yeah, it's kind of a new thing for me, ha-ha. Er..." before I could further shove my foot into my mouth, I pulled my gaze from Captain Stacy before I could lose my nerve. Dropping my bag on the floor, I unzipped it and reached inside, pulling out an envelope. "Um, so I was helping them get some, er, dirt on a defendant they were prosecuting, and, uh, turns out they didn't need it. But I think you might find them interesting."

When I looked back up, Captain Stacy was giving me a curious, almost suspicious look. He held out his hand to take the envelope. "You've been...investigating people? Tailing them on your own?"

I bit my lip, thinking back to the Devil who had been following me around a lot. The guy had my back, if nothing else. "Um, no, I had help. But that's not the point. Nelson & Murdock were after this guy, some Wallstreet dude, Hank Jenson, who they think was double-dealing under the table. The pictures I took kind of pointed in that direction, too, if you  look."

"Hm," Captain Stacy frowned in consideration as he opened the envelope and started flipping through them. He gave them all a short period of thought, so I was hopeful he was taking my claim seriously (unlike some people). After a while, Stacy rubbed his chin and said, "This is...this is some intriguing stuff. How did you get these high shots? Did you scale a building?"

 _Why is everyone so interested in that_? I pondered to myself incredulously. Like, is that the only thing people find most interesting when they look through the photos? Peter never got these kind of questions when he submitted his crazy good photos of Spider-Man. "There were stairs."

"Huh." Captain Stacy nodded once, but I wasn't sure if he believed me or not. "And what happened with their case? Was he sued?"

"No, he paid up before the case even made it to court," I shook my head, shrugging my backpack on again. I gripped the straps tightly, reminding myself all the important facts that Stacy needed to know. "Which is weird, because Nelson & Murdock hadn't even shown him the evidence they had to prove he was guilty. I'm not _too_ surprised, though. When I was trailing the guy, he seemed like the jumpy type. He seemed like he was, I don't know, afraid of something. I think someone made him pay up."

"That's called conjecture in the world of law," Captain Stacy told me, apparently not taking my word for it. Not that I blamed him; he had a point, and I only wished I had more proof to show for it. "It won't hold up against any jury. And Wallstreet's not really my area of expertise."

He pointed at one of the figures in the images. "And who's this guy, the one in the mask?"

"I dunno," I shrugged, trying to feign indifference, even though the very sight of Smoke in those photos made my gut twist. I had tried my hardest not to look at those images in particular when collecting them, and now I just felt intense pangs of guilt whenever I thought about him. "A thief, maybe? Jenson seemed to be making some sort of deal with him. I wish I got it on tape."

Captain Stacy nodded and went into another length of silent thought, leaving me standing there awkwardly, awaiting a verdict. Was he going to do anything about this? Had I even found anything worthwhile of investigation?

"It's funny..." Captain Stacy said, making me look back at him with a new twinge of anticipation. The man was still focused on the pictures, pursing his lips. "Hank Jenson sounds familiar to me, but I'm not sure — no, wait, I remember. Yeah, one of my detectives was prepping for March Madness, said a guy named Jenson was at the head of it. Maybe it's a coincidence?"

It felt like the sudden weight on my shoulders was lifted, and I had to try hard not to keep the smile from exploding on my face. "Uh, I don't know. I don't think so. I mean, my boss was representing this boxer guy, Willy Baxtor — Jenson was a sponsor or something, making bets with other guys to give Baxtor a bigger paycheck for winning, or something. Sports seems to be his sort of thing."

"I have to make sure," Captain Stacy said, getting up and going to the door. He called out into the bullpen, "Hey, Sudowski, get over here! I want to show you something."

Stacy stepped back, and a few moments later, another man appeared, looking confused. "What's the matter, Captain?"

I jolted at the sight of Sudowski. Dark hair, square jaw, beady eyes. When he looked at me, instantly my blood ran cold. It was _him_! It was the cop in the alley, who tried to shoot me!

And I knew he recognized me, too. His eyes widened at the sight of me, shocked recognition. Then, narrowing with suspicion, cold and calculating.

It lasted only a second, but I was rooted to the spot, my mouth frozen and gaping. Captain Stacy didn't notice, instead showed Sudowski one of the pictures, "Hey, I gotta ask. Is this the guy you were talking about earlier, the one organizing that March Madness game. His name's Hank Jenson, right?"

Sudowski stared at the photo for a moment, then his gaze flicked up to Captain Stacy. For a second, I thought he was going to lie, but then Sudowski's shoulders dropped and he smiled, "Yeah, yeah, that's the guy. Kind of a wimp, if you ask me, but he's got a lotta players in the game. You thinking about joining, Cap?"

Stacy chuckled, tucking the photo away. "No, no, just checking up on some facts. You can get back to work, Sudowski."

"Uh, sure, Cap," Sudowski blinked, a little bewildered. He stepped back, heading back out the door, but not before throwing my one last look.

I could see the darkness in his expression, and I managed to keep mine entirely blank. Did he know I recognized him the same way he recognized me? Would he be stupid enough not to assume I did?

As soon as Sudowski was gone, Captain Stacy turned to me. He looked mildly impressed. "Well, I have to say, Amelia, this quite unexpected. And, more importantly, I'm glad you came to me with this, that you willingly sought help from the proper authorities."

"Uh, yeah, no problem," I mumbled, scratching behind my ear as Captain Stacy returned to his seat. "So, um, what are you going to do? Are you going to look into it?"

Captain Stacy leaned on his elbow, giving me a long look. "If I do, can you promise me something?"

I blinked at him. "I-I guess."

"I want you to come to me if you find other stuff like this," Captain Stacy said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Whatever it is. I know you want to help, and I think you're going in the right direction with this Nelson & Murdock. You got a good head on you, Amelia; you're rational, analytical, persistent. I like the way you look beyond the pale. I don't want that potential to go to waste; I think you can do a lot of good if you put that to good use. So, if you come across anything suspicious, I want you to come to me, okay?"

Captain Stacy gave me a small smile. "Whatever it is you're doing, trust your gut. It's done you well so far."

 

* * *

 

I stepped out of that precinct feeling unusually optimistic, for the first time in an incredibly long time. It was like I was actually doing good again, and I didn't have to wear a mask to do it.

The sky was already dark by the time I hit the streets. Maybe the result I got from talking to Captain Stacy made me so happy that I forgot the fact that New York City was, well, New York City. My guard was down, and maybe that's why, when I heading for a cafe to get dinner in Hell's Kitchen, I didn't anticipate the arm that snatched my hood and yanked me into an alleyway.

I cried out, but before I could make any substantial sound, a hand clamped around my mouth. I was nearly pulled off my feet by the arm that locked itself around my throat.

" _Think you got the better of me_?" a voice hissed in my ear as I was dragged further and further into the dark alleyway. " _Who the fuck do you think you are, you  little bitch?_ "

The arm around my neck tightened with emphasis on the last word, and I choked. Panic coursed through me as soon as I recognized the voice.

Sudowski.

I kicked helplessly, trying to cry out but finding barely enough air to breathe. Sudowski was taller than me, and strong enough to lift a tiny, hundred pound girl off her feet.

I should've known. I grit my teeth, closing my eyes and trying to think through the pain and fear and shock. I should've known that there would've been consequences to my actions. That I wouldn't be able to walk out of that Precinct and now somehow pay for outing a high-roller in the underground business.

And Sudowski saw me. I looked him right in the eye. How could I forget that so quickly?

"I'm not letting some stupid whore ruin everything," Sudowski continued in a low register, snarling. I could feel his heavy, hot breath against my ear, teeth grazing my skin with barely contained rage. "You think you can charm my boss with your little detective skills, Nancy Drew? You think you solved the case? Lemme show you what happens when people like you mess with guys like us."

"Guys like...who?" I gasped, my voice barely heard over Sudowski's own hard breathing. For a guy who was probably planning to kill me, he certainly wasn't keeping it together very well. Good thing I knew just what to say to make it worse. I tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. "Guys like Wilson Fisk?"

Sudowski stumbled, and for two seconds he stopped breathing entirely. "Where the fuck did you get that name?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I bit his hand.

Sudowski, in his shock at the mention of the name, had loosened his grip just enough to be in chomping distance. Sudowski uttered a cry of pain and outrage as I worked the full power of my jaw, my teeth going straight through the material of his jacket. I tasted, with some satisfaction, something warm and copper on my tongue.

"Mother—!" Sudowski reacted instinctively, trying to rip his arm away from me. But I clung on like a dog to a bone, and it wasn't until he landed a punch into my side did I finally relinquish him.

I spun away from him, slamming my elbow into his abdomen to further propel myself forward. Sudowski gasped, curling in and grasping his stomach, eyes bulging — did he expect me to be so strong? I know I didn't. I still thought I had weeks to go before I'd be back at full strength.

Well, I was strong enough.

Before Sudowski could recollect himself, I shifted my stance, bringing up my fists to protect my front. Then I struck out with my foot, launching myself with my other foot to send my body into a spin.

My heel landed against Sudowski's temple. The man could be considered handsome, I suppose, but his anger marred his features, turning him into some terrifying monster, and I felt nothing but satisfaction as his head jerked to the side from the blow and he went down.

I landed back on both feet, bending at the knees and turning to face him again.

Sudowski was down on one knee, a nasty bruise forming on his temple. "You're gonna pay for that —"

His hand flew up to his belt, but I acted before he could even touch his gun. I jumped forward, slamming my knee into jaw, delivering a fierce knee-buster.

Sudowski's hand left his waist to clutch his face when it met the ground. While I considered my next move — stay and finish the job, or run for my life while I could — Sudowski called out, " _JACKSON! JACKSON, I NEED BACK — oof!"_

Delivering another kick to his stomach, I stopped Sudowski in his tracks.

But I wasn't fast enough, because two seconds later I heard footsteps, followed by another set of arms wrapping around me.

This time I was prepared, though. Instead of letting my new attacker, Jackson, get me off my feet again, I instead dropped forward. Reaching behind me, I grabbed whatever fabric I could touch, then throwing all my weight and muscle into a crouch.

With all that momentum working for me, I managed to pull the attacker along with me, and sending him flying over my shoulders. "Agh!"

He slammed face first into the ground, but Jackson — a guy with a shock of red hair — was a little faster than Sudowski and managed to roll back to his feet.

I didn't see the gun until it was almost too late. The muzzle flashed and I just barely managed to throw myself out of the way, slamming into the brick wall next to me, but not before I felt a sharp pain in my arm.

Gasping, I looked down, seeing a new tear in my coat, and the scarlet sheen underneath. I grasped it, feeling the blood seep through my fingers. _Goddammit!_ The Doc wasn't going to be happy about this.

I didn't have time to think about how the hell I was going to explain why I got attacked by two cops, because Jackson was still tracking me with his gun. Before he could land another bullet, I struck out my hand.

The clip fell out of the gun, and Jackson luckily was too surprised to fire the bullet still in the chamber. Which was good for me, because that little move sent a stroke of pain through my head.

Apparently, not _everything_ was back. I wished for the days when I could lift a car without even blinking.

But those weren't those days, and I wasn't in the mood for reminiscing. While Jackson fumbled and bent down to get his clip, I took advantage of his distraction.

Lunging forward, I pulled back my arm, before landing a solid punch on Jackson's face. He grunted, dropping both gun and clip, and I followed up with a punch from the other side, sending Jackson stumbling back. Blood spurted from his nose, and he barely had time to cover it when I finished him off.

I slammed my palms into his chest, once more activating my telekinesis, because apparently I hadn't learned my lesson from a few seconds before.

Jackson went flying back, crying out before he landed in the muddy drift, sliding for a spectacular six feet before coming to a stop. He didn't get back up.

I was breathing hard, strange flashing lights in front of my eyes. I stumbled, the new agony disorienting me and nearly making me lose my balance.

Pressing my hands to my temple, I slumped against the brick wall, closing my head and waiting for my breath to even out and the pain to fade. By the time I could see without even the tiniest bit of light hurting, I knew I had to get out of here and fast, before either of these two jugheads woke up and called on more baddies.

Turning around, I peered out the alleyway to make sure it was clear, before ducking out and making a run for it. Home free, at last.

And as I disappeared into the streets, not once did I consider looking up. Not during my walk, not during the attack, and not now, when all I wanted was a warm meal and maybe some stitches.

If I had looked up, even once, I might've seen that horned figure watching silently from the rooftops.


	29. Ex Aequo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I hate myself for some reason, I decided to write from Matt's perspective. And I've never written from the POV of a blind character before, so it was weird, writing differently to show that. I can't describe color, or show action in the same way that I used to. Or I tried to. I don't think the fight scene is too much different than how I'd normally write it.
> 
> On a side note, I think Devil's Backbone by The Civil Wars is an excellent theme song for Matt Murdock. Check it out!

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**Ex Aequo**

* * *

 

 

"So you're telling me a cop attacked you?" Bruce asked as he threaded a needle through Amelia's skin.

She flinched. "Ow! A little warning next time, maybe?"

"That's what happens when you get shot." he reminded her, and got a dirty look for his trouble. Bruce had not been happy when she returned home with a bleeding arm and a story about a surprise attack in an alleyway. It seemed he couldn't have a week go by without _something_ happening. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Yeah, a cop, Sudowski," Amelia muttered, clutching her wounded arm and doing her best not to move. Bruce didn't give her any sedatives (certainly not alcohol), since the gunshot was only a flesh wound. "I've seen him before."

"Where?"

"A few weeks ago. A drug bust. I thought he was there to, you know, arrest the dealers, but instead he let them go and shot at _me_ ," Amelia gestured to herself and laughed weakly. She was sitting on the kitchen counter so her wound would be eye-level with Bruce. "Stupid Amy for not realizing the trouble she'd get into, messing with corrupt cops, right?"

Bruce nodded, mostly to himself. He considered for a moment before saying, "Well, I'm glad you went to the police first. Better than trying to solve the problem yourself."

"Yeah, Captain Stacy said something like that, too."

He frowned, blinking up at her. "He knows?"

"No," Amelia returned the look, seeming a little bewildered herself. "At least, I don't think so. But I guess he knows my reputation at school now. Gwen tells him everything."

"And Gwen is...?" he said as he made another loop through the cut and tightened the string.

Amelia grimaced a little. "She's my best friend. And also Captain Stacy's daughter."

"I don't know how you know all these people," Bruce muttered, somehow not surprised that Amelia knew the chief of police. "Myself included."

"Must be my charming personality."

Bruce chuckled at that as he tied a knot at the end of the cut. It had only taken seven stitches, but Amelia looked tired, and the pinch between her brow hadn't left. Something else was bothering her, but he had no idea what it could be. "I'm surprised your demonic friend didn't try to save you."

"Yeah, I don't know. He wasn't there. I guess it's about time I got back on my feet, anyways," Amelia shrugged, jumping off the counter and wincing slightly. She rolled her shoulder, testing the arm. "Wow, that stings."

"I'd really appreciate it if you got into less trouble." Bruce sighed, standing back and crossing his arms. Amelia, luckily, didn't get hurt too often, but when she did...it tended to involve dangerous weapons.

"I didn't _ask_ to get attacked," she shot back at him, scowling.

"No, I know, I know," Bruce shook his head before she could continue to misinterpret his meaning. Of course he didn't blame Amelia for getting hurt; but considering the type of activities she often partook in, she should've been more careful. "I just meant...you're walking on thin ice with these guys. One wrong step and they'll attack. You're not making it any better by showing them your face."

She actually smirked at that. "You saying I should go back to wearing a mask?"

"Absolutely not," Bruce was starting to think she did this sort of thing on purpose. "I just...I want you to be safe, that's all."

The smirk faded and for once the girl seemed humbled. Amelia glanced at the floor, screwing up her lips. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Like usual. Something else I have to work on."

 

* * *

 

Matt couldn't think.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to parse through the influx of sensory information. Sounds echoed all around him, pulsating and sharp, sending little daggers into his mind and made it impossible to read the pages before him on the desk.

The past couple days had been pretty unpleasant, not the least of which what he witnessed in that alleyway. Amelia and the cops. Matt had just been on the other side of the street when he heard her little cry, echoing like a siren through the air.

By now, her voice had become familiar to Matt, and while he didn't intentionally follow her around during his patrols, Amelia had a strange tendency to always end up in the worst situations.

This had been one of them. Dirty cops had snuck up on her, grabbed her and pulled her into an alleyway. Matt had barely enough time to act, to race over and jump down...only to learn that he didn't need to.

Amelia had already taken care of the problem.

Matt couldn't see it, but he could _hear_ it. Smell it. The sound of wind as her leg flew snapped through the air, the blood when she broke a nose. The _thump_ when her fists made contact with her assailant's chest — the flex of muscles, crack of bones, intake of breath.

Her rapid heartbeat was the only thing faster than her reflexes. The second attacker had pulled a gun — Matt heard the clasp unlock, the barrel cocked, the trigger pulled, and the terrible bang that made him wince.

Matt had thought the worse that happened. But the bullet didn't tear through skin, scrape against bone, rip apart blood vessels...instead it merely grazed her, and Amelia grunted when she hit the wall.

And as if Matt hadn't been surprised enough, then Amelia had to do something _truly_ bizarre.

An unseen force. Something he couldn't sense, something powerful and apparently generated out of nowhere.

It launched the second attacker ten feet away. Stronger than any girl. Stronger than any _man_.

Matt still wasn't sure what it was, days later when he had time to think about it. A part of him regretted for not reaching Amelia in time — but now he wondered if he should've confronted her directly after the fight. The girl ran out of there like her hair was on fire, and Matt had stayed behind to clean up her mess and make sure those cops didn't come back to haunt her.

He knew the experience bothered Amelia, too, or _something_ did, because she was in the office right now, but not doing any work.

Even though she was in the next room, the sound of the clicking pen was so loud it could've been right next to his ear. To a normal person, it probably seemed innocuous, but for Matt it was like nails on a chalkboard. The sound invaded his thoughts and he couldn't push it out again.

Matt wasn't sure if he could just tell her to stop. Would that be weird? Matt was very careful that people didn't discover his unique ability or after-hours past time. Few, like Amelia, knew both of his personas, but hadn't yet put two and two together, which was what Matt preferred. If he gave away too much, would she figure it out? Amelia was hardly an idiot — Matt imagined half the reason she was still alive right now was of her sharp mind. You don't piss off the Rose and live long after by playing it easy.

Still, the clicking was incessant and _insufferable_. Matt considered himself a patient man, but even patient men had their limits. Getting up from his desk, Matt huffed and made for the door, cracking it open and saying, "Amy, is everything alright?"

Her heartbeat was even when she said, "Uh, yeah, why?"

Matt could hear the hard grating of her shoulder blade against her ribcage and knew it still hurt, but Amelia was good at hiding it. She had practice, of course, because Amelia was also one of the best liars he knew. Her heartbeat was almost always regular unless she was surprised or angry.

That's why he couldn't fathom what the problem really was. So Matt said, "You've been clicking that pen for ten minutes straight."

The clicking suddenly stopped, and Amelia's hair swished when she bowed her head. "Oh. Sorry. You could hear that?"

"I hear a lot of things in this office. The walls are pretty thin." A rueful smiled pulled on Matt's lips. There were papers on her lap that made crinkling, scratching noises against her jeans. Matt couldn't register anything printed in ink or in pixels, so he had no idea if that was homework or work-work. "You sound frustrated. We're not working you too hard, are we?"

"No, no, it's just Spanish homework," Amelia sighed with the typical exhaustion of a teenager studying a subject they knew nothing about. "I suck at conjugating verbs."

Matt was pretty sure this wasn't the real issue, but he couldn't necessarily call her out on it, when even her heartbeat wasn't helping him. Instead, he turned his head in Karen's direction, to the sound of her fingers typing, nails scraping lightly against the keys, and said, "Hey, Karen, don't you know Spanish?"

"Oh, uh," the woman jolted at the call of her name, laughing a little at herself. She stopped typing to tuck some hair behind her ear. "Yeah, a lot of my neighbors spoke Spanish when I was growing up. I can help, if you want?"

Matt could hear Amelia's knuckles cracked and strained as she flexed them, apparently hesitant. While her heartbeat didn't say much, her body language did; Amelia clenched her hands whenever she was trying to make a tough decision, although he wasn't sure what bothered her so much about _this_ one.

"I-I suppose," she muttered. "But my Spanish is... _très mal_."

That made Karen laugh, light and tinkling, like wind chimes. "I guess so, because that's French."

"Oh, man..." Amelia groaned, the chair creaking as she hefted herself out and approached Karen's desk. She took the seat next to Karen, and papers crinkled as she slid them across the desk. "As you can see, I have no idea how future-perfect works..."

Matt stepped back into his office, but didn't close the door. Keeping his hand against the wall to help guide him back to his desk, he reached for his cane and jacket.

Then he was back out the door again, heading for the exit.

Karen paused in her explanation of verbs to Amelia to say, "Wait, Matt, where are you going?"

"I'm, uh, gonna call it in early for the night," he said with an easy smile, so neither of the girls got suspicious. He tended to keep odd hours anyways, so this wasn't necessarily new for him. "I'm not feeling that great."

"Oh, no," Karen's voice was sympathetic. "Well, I hope you feel better. I'll tell Foggy when he gets back from his coffee break, so he doesn't call you fifteen times like last time."

"I'd appreciate that, thanks."

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Amelia whisper, "Is it just me, or does he have a limp...?

Matt did indeed have a limp — he had landed wrong the other day, underestimated the height difference between two rooftops, and now his knee had been aching for days.

No one had said anything, as Matt had tried his best to hide it. But like Amelia and her shoulder, he slipped up sometimes. One time, she dropped a stack of papers because she pulled an injured tendon wrong, and then couldn't move her arm for the rest of the day. That time, her pain had been so prominent that even her breathing was affected; short and uneven.

It had been hard not to act to his fullest extent. Matt didn't know how she hurt her shoulder so bad — he knew it was from a weapon, a knife maybe. Literally backstabbed. It wasn't the type of blow you were supposed to live through. That's why Matt believed her when she said the Rose was after her.

Someone _really_ wanted her dead.

Matt did his best to protect her, as he did for everyone else in this city. He was only mad that he hadn't been there for her that one time, right when she would've needed it most.

Unfortunately, Matt had a bigger problem at the moment.

He knew it was waiting for him at home, waiting since this morning. Matt decided not to deal with it then; maintaining a facade of normalcy was still important to him. Matt had friends and a job that needed him to show up on time, to act just right, to be the blind lawyer they believed him to be.

Wasn't his fault that Stick thought it was dumb.

The old man was sitting on the couch when Matt finally opened the door to his apartment. The door was still locked, at least, which meant Stick probably hadn't been anywhere.

"About damn time," Stick said as soon as Matt approached the door, not even waiting for him to get inside first. Not that Matt was surprised; they both knew Matt could hear him just fine.

'Old' wasn't really a good description for the man. Matt was pretty sure Stick was nearing his seventies now, but that man was as spry as he was in his prime. His frame was thin, tall, knobbly — Matt imagined he wasn't a very imposing figure to most people, but that's because they didn't know what Matt knew, didn't sense what he did.

The corded muscle thick and strong as rope. The tightly controlled breathing, a heartbeat the never wavered, not even in battle. Stick was more machine than man — even his words were carefully chosen, cold and calculating, knowing just where Matt's weak points were, and striking them just as efficiently as his hands.

"The subway was late," Matt said, even though it was a dumb excuse, and a lie on top of it all. Matt hated the subways — the sounds echoed even worse down there, and the screeching brakes were near excruciating for his sensitive ears. He preferred to walk everywhere he went, and he may or may not have taken the scenic route getting back home.

"Bullshit," Stick said, tapping his cane lightly against the floor. "You just waste time, like usual, Murdock. Think the world's your oyster."

"What do you want, Stick?" Matt snapped; he had absolutely no patience for this man or his crappy words of wisdom, which were more bitter than wise anyways.

He went over to the kitchen, foregoing the cane he didn't really need to navigate. Out of the entire city, Matt knew his apartment the best; every surface, every corner, every texture as familiar as the skin on the back of his hand. But the air was different; tense with unsaid words, with eavesdropping ears listening to each other's heartbeats. Trying to find another weakness, another thing to argue about. It was never ending, and after all these years, Matt was just exhausted with it.

Stick already had something, of course. "So, how's your hero thing working out? Nice to see how much of a difference you're making out there."

The sarcasm was practically dripping off of Stick's tongue, and Matt had to resist throwing the glass he pulled out of the cupboard at the old man's head. But he refused to lose his composure so soon. "Why are you here?"

"You know why." Stick said. "The war."

"Right, your mythical battle," Matt chuckled darkly to himself. Stick had been telling Matt about this so-called 'war' since he first started training Matt back when he was nine. "How could I forget about that. You ever gonna tell me what that's about, or do I have to start playing the guessing game again?"

"It's as real as you and me," Stick spat, not appreciating Matt's tone. Hmph. Hypocrite. "You're just too dumb to see it."

Matt decided not to point out the irony of that statement, said from one blind man to another. Unlike Matt, Stick had been born that way, and was particularly self-righteous about it — as if Matt had it any easier, knowing what the sky used to look like, what the world appeared to be for everyone who was "normal".

He had a new normal. He could barely remember what the sky looked like — now it was just an endless black expanse over his head, day or night. The sun, while he could feel its heat, was entirely invisible. It was sort of depressing, but Matt usually had bigger things to worry about.

"Or maybe I'm just harder to indoctrinate," Matt shot back, not about to be shamed. "I'm not going to join your stupid army, Stick. I have my path, and I won't stray from it."

"You're a soldier, whether you like it or not," Stick said, the couch squeaking softly as he got up. Matt glanced over his shoulder, sensing the man shuffling closer. Stick had a funny way of moving that somehow flew under Matt's radar. It was unnerving, and Matt preferred to keep a handle on Stick whenever he was in the vicinity. "You made your choice as soon as you agreed to become my apprentice. You still are."

"No, I'm not." Matt said, gritting his teeth. He filled the cup from the water faucet, pausing to sip and recollect his thoughts. Surprisingly, Stick was feeling patient today, because he just waited for Matt to continue, instead of butting in again. "You left, remember? But in case it's still not clear: I quit."

_Whap!_

The blow came out of nowhere.

Actually, it came from Stick, who moved faster than Matt had anticipated when he decided to provoke him. The baton struck Matt across the temple. He cried out, dropping the glass, which shattered across the floor.

He stumbled, grabbed the counter to catch himself, and by then Stick was on top of him, slamming his cane on top of that hand. Matt relinquished his hold on instinct, crashing to the floor on his back.

Furious, he made to get back up, but something grazed his neck and Matt paused, half-way up on his elbows.

"You don't quit until I _say_ you quit, kid." Stick said, standing over Matt with his cane at his throat. It didn't have a sharp end, but that wouldn't stop the old man from forcing it through Matt's neck if he felt so inclined. And Matt decided it best not to test him.

Unlike Matt, Stick had no predisposition to killing. In fact, it was a prerequisite to being a 'soldier'. Matt knew, from extensive experience, that the best way to piss of Stick was not to do as he was told. Raised Catholic, that was a little tough for Matt, but turned out it wasn't so hard when deciding whether or not to take a life.

Matt would never cross that line. Ever.

Blood, warm and smooth, slowly dripped down the side of his face. Matt licked his lips, panting slightly as he tried to decide his next move. Somehow, he got the feeling they weren't going to just walk away from this without another fight. "You don't own me, Stick."

He was pretty sure Stick was going to say something to that, but stopped at the sound of footsteps. Both men heard it and canted their head in the direction, curious by how near it sounded, how it stopped right in front of the door — a split second before it opened.

"Hey, Matt, you left your briefcase behind." came a bright voice that made Matt's blood run cold.

Amelia walked straight in, passing the hallway and into the kitchen. "I hope you don't mind I came here. Foggy said —"

Her footsteps came to an abrupt stop.

Nobody moved, just stared (blindly) at each other. Matt could sense, from Stick's heartbeat, that even _he_ was surprised by Amelia's sudden appearance. He wasn't sure what to do — tell Amelia to run? Stay and help? Call 911? Each seemed like a terrible option.

When she spoke again, Amelia's voice no longer sure and confident. Her heart was beating faster than he had ever heard it before. Her bones cracked tightly around the handle of the briefcase. "...Matt? W-what's going on?"

"Amy, you need to leave," Matt had to concentrate to keep his voice steady. But it was too late. Stick already figured out who she was.

He felt the old man regarding him, and heard the smirk on his face. "Is she the one you mentioned earlier? She don't seem like much."

"Excuse me?" Amelia snapped before Matt could explain himself to either of them. "Who the hell are you?"

To Matt, she said, "And why are you talking about me? To _this guy_?"

Matt could appreciate her confusion. To Amelia, what she saw probably made no sense. With Matt on the floor, beaten and bleeding with an old man standing threateningly over him, it looked like a (really weird) assault case. But to learn that they were associates, that he was talking behind her back?

Yeah, she was pissed. Matt cursed under his breath, knowing that he was going to get out of this easily.

Matt opened his mouth to rectify his mistake, but he sensed a shifting in Stick's footing, the swish of shoe against tile. He figured out what was going to happen a second before the old man launched himself at the girl. "Stick, no!"

In those harrowing tiny moments between swing and impact, Matt knew the girl was dead. Amelia saw too much, and now Stick was going to kill her. Even as he scrambled to his feet, Matt knew it was only a lost cause.

...Until Amelia caught Stick's cane with her hand.

Stick's momentum came to a sudden stop, shaking the floor when he landed instead of slamming Amelia off her feet. The old man's bones jarred at the unexpected block, and Stick, for once in his long, bitter life, stumbled to keep hold of his cane. "What —?"

That's when Amelia tried to kick him, turning her body away to drive her foot into Stick's gut.

Only this time he was prepared, dodging it and landed a fist to her cheek. If there was one thing Matt knew for sure about Stick, it was that the man never made the same mistake twice.

Amelia gasped, taking the blow and dropping, releasing Stick's cane. He swiped it down, intending to bludgeon her, but Amelia was faster, rolling away. Back on her feet in an instant, she grabbed Stick's cane, actively reaching for it.

Stick didn't relinquish it so easily, using her own pulling momentum to jerk it back into her face. But Amelia managed to yank down fast enough to bring the blow into her chest, glancing harmlessly off her collarbone before she finally ripped the cane out of Stick's hands and turned it on him.

Amelia swung wildly — Matt knew instantly that she had no experience in weapons training with the way she wielded it, but her strength was something else entirely. The cane flew through the air with whistling velocity, fiercer than even Stick could manage.

The old man avoided the first two swipes, side-stepping and bending backwards at the waist with the agility of a man fifty years his junior. Amelia changed tactics, instead stabbing at Stick. The end of the cane went into the old man's chest so hard that Matt heard his ribcage crack.

Throughout all of this, Matt could only witness the fight in shock. It was one thing for Stick to attack a completely defenseless and innocent teenager...only to remember that teenager wasn't so defenseless after all. He couldn't even tell who was winning, or who he should really be worried about.

If Stick was winded, he didn't show it. Instead, he grasped the cane and twisted it out of Amelia's hands, before swiping her feet out from under her. Amelia yelped, crashing to the floor on one side.

To Matt, he said, "God damn, I've never seen someone fight so hard for a loser like you before. What'd you tell her, kid, to make her think you were worth this?"

As soon as she hit the ground, Matt knew she had lost, even before Stick rounded Amelia. He knew what Stick was going to do, just before he did it. Like Matt, Stick had sensed the weakness in the bone and muscle, and sought it out as quickly as he could. Stick planted a hand on the back of Amelia's neck to prevent her from getting up — then slamming his fist into her shoulder.

It was Amelia's ear-piercing scream of agony that rattled the glass and spurred Matt back into action.

"Get away from her!" in two seconds flat, Matt crossed the distance between the two of them and tackled Stick before he could finish Amelia off, throwing the both of them to the floor.

While Amelia keeled over, clutching her shoulder and trying to hold back sobs, Matt was busy delivering blow after blow to Stick's face. His mind had gone completely blank with rage — the same rage his father had in the ring, the unrelenting force that drove him forward, even when he was beaten, right to the edge of the line.

The devil inside him that Matt fought with, every day, to keep from getting out.

Well, today the devil won.

Matt didn't know how to stop himself. Didn't know how. All he knew was that he hated Stick, he hated his methods, and that he hated the way the old man was laughing at him now, even as his nose bled. "There's the soldier I'm looking for! Ha! If only you fought like this for the war, and not some stupid little bi —"

Stick didn't get to finish his curse because Matt landed his fist straight across Stick's mouth. The man grunted and, apparently deciding he humored Matt long enough, kicked him off and delivered both of his heels into Matt's chest, sending him flying backwards.

Matt hit a side table in the living room, knocking it and its contents over. The lamp and bulb shattered, adding to the terrible clatter that filled the room. His head smacked against the hardwood floor, rattling the entire world from the red-tinged radar to nothing but painful darkness. Glass and ceramic shards cut into his arms and back, and in the back of his mind Matt wanted to kick himself for ruining another one of his good shirts.

Head aching with a new pain he couldn't quite shake off, Matt tried to pull himself back to his feet. Stick was already approaching him, looking ready to finish the job. Matt knew he should surrender — it was the smart thing to do. Stick was clearly at the advantage here, and hardly seemed slowed despite the multitude of injuries he had already acquired.

But Matt's rage continued to burn. The devil never gave up, even when it knew it was going to lose.

A cane to his chest prevented Matt from getting all the way up, though. But instead of being cowed, Matt just swiped it away — only for it to be snapped across his face.

He grunted, falling back on the ground. Pain bloomed across his face, hot as a brand. Matt spit out blood, its coppery taste on his tongue taking over his other senses and his scattered radar.

"Come on, kid, give up," Stick told him, chuckling, forcing Matt's face into the floor with his cane. It's rubber end was long gone, leaving only its metal edge to dig into his skin. Matt flinched, his hands clenching, bleeding, aching — but it was nothing compared to the urge of wanting to hurt Stick more. "I've never trained someone as dumb as you. How long will it take for you to learn when you're beat?"

"Guess I need another lesson," Matt muttered, trying to pull his head out from under the cane, to no avail.

"You got that ri — oof!"

Suddenly, with absolutely no explanation, Stick completely vanished from Matt's radar. His feet left the ground, the floor boards bending slightly, the air whooshing as the man was carried away by some bizarre unseen force that Matt couldn't pick up on.

 _Wham!_ Matt felt dust fall from the ceiling when Stick was thrown into the outer brick wall, between two windows. The cane clattered with a hollow sound to the floor next to the old man's feet as he grasped helplessly at his neck

Touch, taste, scent, sound — none of it served him to identify what exactly had happened, but now he was suddenly aware of someone else moving — Amelia, somehow back on her feet, limping into the living room. From the sound of her footsteps, he could tell she was just barely holding up. With her wounded arm clutching her abdomen, the other was raised in the air, trembling violently as her hand clawed around an object that wasn't there.

Her breathing was loud and hard, half-way between hyperventilation and sobbing. Amelia inhaled through her nose, and spoke with a tight voice, "Leave...him... _alone_."

Matt could sense a change in the air pressure, but he wasn't sure what caused it. But it didn't matter, because he was already on his feet, rushing to Amelia's side just before one of her feet gave out from underneath her. She gave a small whimper of pain when Matt caught her around the midsection, his arm pressing into her recently-aggravated old injury.

He knew she was doing this — somehow holding Stick up in the air, against the wall, over ten feet away with nothing but thin air between them — somehow. The man was choking and Matt had no idea how long the man would last. Or if Amelia even knew what she was doing.

Whatever it was, it was taking a lot of effort. Amelia shook against him, chest heaving, heart racing erratically to keep up with whatever force she was enacting on Stick.

"Amelia, stop!" Matt ordered, but when she didn't react, he grabbed her arm, forced it down.

Stick followed the movement, hitting the floor with a hard thud before Amelia suddenly went slack in Matt's arms. He nearly fell, having to readjust with the new weight, and it took him a moment to realize Amelia had passed out; her head drooped, rolling back against his shoulder. Her heart rate was decreasing fast as her breathing suddenly evened out.

Meanwhile, Stick was already picking himself up, coughing as the air returned to his lungs. The old man massaged his throat, speaking hoarsely, "Heh-heh, she's pretty good, gotta admit, kid. But she's weak, just like you. Even weaker, really, considering she can still see and...well, whatever the fuck _that_ was. She would've made a good soldier in the right hands."

Matt stumbled back, clutching Amelia a little more tightly. He knew from experience that Stick didn't tolerate failure, and never took kindly to those who stood in his way. "Stay away from her. She has nothing to do with your war."

Stick just laughed, the cane clicking against the floor as he picked it up again. "Why the hell would I want anything to do with _that_?" he spat the word out like Amelia was something other than human. Maybe she was. But she wasn't _less_.

Stick continued, "I'll leave her alone. But if she comes in between you and me again, I can't promise I won't deal with her like I deal with all of my other problems."

Matt expected the old man to continue the fight, because why the hell not, right? But he could hear the man's breath — wheezing, coughing. There was a slight limp Stick was trying to hide, but Matt was good enough now that he could detect the old man's smaller weaknesses. Stick may be able to beat Matt on any old day, and even against multiple opponents the old man could still come out on top; but Amelia had been an unexpected variable in the fight, and even Stick knew when to back down.

So maybe that was why Stick started heading towards the door, holding out his cane as it was properly meant to be used. The knob clanked and popped as Stick turned it, and as the door opened, the old man parted with these final words: "I suggest you get rid of her, if you know what's best for you."

Then the door slammed shut.

Matt didn't realize he had been holding his breath until it came out in a big whoosh. At the same time, Amelia was already stirring, awakening from her brief black out. She shifted in his arms, trying to pull away when the pain returned. But her footing was still unsure, and Matt had to be careful not to drop her when he set her down on the floor beside the couch, away from the mess they made.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded, half angry that Amelia got involved in the fight again, and relieved that she was still alive, still awake.

"Because you're  my friend." she wheezed, an answer that didn't surprise Matt in the least. She curled up against the side of the couch, her head resting on one of the cushions, wincing in pain. "I...I wanted to protect you."

"Well, of all people, I'm the one person who doesn't need it." he said, trying not to sound too admonishing. Matt appreciated the effort, and a part of him was touched that she felt that way about him, but Matt didn't want it to go to her head — he _also_ didn't want her to think he was criticizing, since that would only make her act out _more_. "So please, don't do that again."

"You're welcome," Amelia muttered, which was about as close to a 'yes' as Matt was going to get.

This was not what he wanted. Any of this. Matt saw her bruised face, the bleeding lip, and couldn't help stop the immense guilt filling his chest. When she tried to pick herself up again, Amelia tried grabbing the edge of the couch — but her hands were still shaking, her grip unsure, and when she tried to apply weight, everything failed.

She collapsed again, gasping painfully. Panicked, Matt jumped forward, ignoring his own aches, helping Amelia back up. With one hand under her chin and the other on her (uninjured) shoulder, he said, "No, no, don't push yourself, okay? You're hurt. He hurt you...I hurt you. It's my fault. I'm sorry."

She tried to pull away out of his grasp, but the attempt was so weak she might as well not have done anything at all. She sighed, giving up and falling back against the couch, closing her eyes and saying, "It's...it's fine. I'm not angry at you...Okay, I'm a little angry. But not about that."

Amelia seemed both confused and too tired to figure it out, so she just huffed and shrugged her shoulders. "I'd do that for a lot of people I know. This isn't a first for me."

Somehow, that didn't make Matt feel much better. But after hearing what he needed to hear, he moved on to the next pressing question.

"Did you..." Matt shook his head, still unsure if what his radar told him had been the full story. "Did you just Force Choke him?"

She slumped against the end of the couch, shrugging with one shoulder. "It's kinda what I do. But I'm not a Sith Lord, I promise. I wasn't trying to kill him; that probably hurt me as much as it hurt him. I won't be doing that again for awhile, so don't worry."

Matt believed her, surprisingly, even though her heartrate was no different between a lie and a truth. Well, actually, her heart was beating too hard to tell, spiked with adrenaline. But there was something in her voice that resonated deeply with him; of pain, of exhaustion, a defeat that lend itself to the truth so easily. "I-I know. That wouldn't be like you."

Her laugh was short and disbelieving. "Really? Because I had no idea who the hell _you_ are, Matt Murdock. Are you even blind?"

"Yeah." He gave her a weak smile. It felt strange having to prove his own disability; it wasn't the first time in his life, but this particular occasion was special. This time, he gave her legitimate reason to doubt. "I'm really blind. My eyes haven't worked since I was nine and I was splashed in the face with toxic chemicals. Not something I recommend."

"Whoa," she whispered, the awe prevalent in her voice. "But then, that guy...Stick? You know him?"

"He's the one who taught me all of...this. To see without sight."

"He's blind, too? And he — he can fight? _You_ fight?"

"It's kind of what I do."

"Hardy har," Amelia said, and while Matt wasn't sure, he had a good feeling she just rolled her eyes. "Now I feel really dumb for not figuring it out sooner. How could I not pin the one blind guy I know to be the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"I _really_ don't like that name," Matt said, wanting to scowl at her, but it was hard, since he didn't have his glasses to hide his eyes. He wasn't even sure if he was looking at her face, so the effect would be ruined. "Can you please stop calling me that?"

"Oh, right, you're Catholic," Amelia's hand slapped against her forehead. "I guess that's kind of like blasphemy, right?"

"I like to think I'm not that bad."

"You're the one who came up with that snazzy outfit."

"I'm starting to reconsider."

"No, don't," Matt jerked when she rested a hand on his arm — as he suspected, her grip was unusually strong for a hand so small. But he didn't pull away, and instead just listened when Amelia urged, "I think you're doing good. You're scaring the right people. After what they've done to this city, they deserve to be afraid for once. If not the Devil then..."

Amelia paused for a moment, thinking. Then she said, with what sounded like a cheeky smile, "...Then how about Daredevil?"

Matt pursed his lips, considering. "Mm. Maybe."

" _Maybe_? Come on, that's totally badass! And I never get to name people anyways — Spider-Man always beats me. Can I just have this, please?"

She sounded so young and childish that Matt almost gave in on the precociousness alone. He wondered if this was what it was like to have a younger sibling — he knew his father always wanted more kids, but after the death of Matt's mother, Jack Murdock refused to remarry and decided to make the best with what he had. Amelia was about the closest thing he was ever going to get, and Matt decided he didn't miss out on much.

Eventually, he sighed and said, "Fine. But only if you promise me something."

"Fine." she said easily.

"This is a promise you have to keep," he reminded her, since Amelia had a certain annoying penchant for not giving a damn. "You break it, and I'm changing the name."

"All right, all right, fine, just tell me already," Amelia said, huffing in impatience.

"Stay away from the Rose. Don't go after Fisk," Matt said, and he felt her hand jolt at the name. "Yeah, I heard your friend, too. And I know that you used to go by another name a few months back. I don't know what ended it, but I'm guessing it wasn't a willing change. But I think it's the right one."

"I can still help people." Amelia said, her voice soft with regret, yet firm with protest. "More than in the normal way."

Matt ran a hand through his hair, working his jaw and trying to find a reason to end this recurring fight of theirs. What could possibly get her to stop? He didn't want anyone else getting hurt or dying in this dangerous war, certainly not one as young and hopeful as hers.

Instead of discouraging her, he asked, "Why? Why do you want to help so bad?"

"Because it's the right thing to do." It sounded so simple the way she said it. So simple, and so impossible to refute. "Like a...a close friend of mine told me: With great power, comes great responsibility."

Matt raised his eyebrows, mildly impressed. "That's a good line. I can definitely see why you never listen to me now."

"Among other things." Amelia said, then after a second of thought, added, "I can't promise you I'll stop what I'm doing. I'm going to help people, the best way I know how, no matter what you'll do."

Matt opened his mouth to complain, but Amelia was way ahead of him. " _But_ if it really bothers you that much, I'll stop going after the Rose. But I seriously hope you keep your end of the deal, because I'm not just going to sit and twiddle my thumbs waiting for my mom to come home."

"I'll find her. I won't stop until I do."

"Good." Amelia said, sounding sure, and Matt could finally relax now that she seemed satisfied. Maybe this time she'd listen, she'd keep her promise. If nothing else, let it be this one. "Because I can still come up with a dumber name to call you."

Matt just shook his head and smirked. "I think I'll manage."


	30. Hora Fugit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus again! I had a lot of schoolwork, and was more than a little behind. Coming towards Thanksgiving vacation I have a little more leeway to do what I want.
> 
> I'm also partially inspired by the premiere season of Jessica Jones, and like Daredevil, its sort of going to bleed into Falcon's story. If you don't know what Jessica Jones is about (I didn't until I watched the show), she used to be a former superhero turned private eye, and I actually really like that idea, and I'm thinking I might take a similar route for Amelia's character.
> 
> (Of course, Jessica becomes a superhero again after a while in the comics, but that's not the point).
> 
> I'm thinking maybe Amy might quit being a superhero, at least a public one wearing a mask. When it's all said and done, she'll always be willing to help people, but in a less violent and typical way. I don't know, I'm still thinking about it. Tell me what you think of this idea :)
> 
> Anyways, hope you like this chapter! I had this idea ever since I first started writing, and the 'Snowmageddon' that NYC experienced in the early winter of 2015 was a perfect setting. You can find excellent coverage of it on the Daily Show ;)

**Chapter Thirty**

**Hora Fugit**

* * *

 

 

February hit New York like a semi carrying four million pounds of snow.

A hurricane hit the southeast coast of the United State about a week ago, and while the cold of the Northern Hemisphere helped weaken its strength, it did nothing to stop the massive amount of snow we got here in Manhattan and New Jersey.

Half the streets were blocked. Bridges were closed after 10 o’ clock. Power was knocked out in several neighborhoods. People were freaking the hell out, believing that this was it, this was the end, and supermarkets were raided. You couldn’t find a can of soup on any shelf no matter how hard you looked.

Despite the rampant chaos, there were a few good things to come out of this.

For one thing: no class. I had to walk to school because no buses could reach my street, only for school to be called out for the rest of the week (or until most of the roads could be plowed, which was still an ongoing effort). Snow days didn’t happen a lot here, but I wasn’t going to complain, even if I had to slog my way back to a warm, fluffy bed and all the hot chocolate I could ask for.

Another thing: no crime. Surprisingly, one of the best ways to dissuade a criminal from committing heinous acts was to make it really inconvenient, like freezing your nose off in the bitter wind. Peter was taking it easy -- not just because he had a cold (surprisingly weak immune system, that one), but now he didn’t have to worry about some jerkwad trying to ruin everyone’s day by unleashing a massive army of bee assassins or something.

Things rarely, if ever, could ever shut down New York City, but this had to be one of them.

As I was making my way down midtown, I played a game of counting all the moving cars I saw. So far, I still had my whole right hand free, and the only types of cars I had seen were police cars. Captain Stacy had issued a temporary mandate of essential vehicles only on the road, which limited traffic to just about zilch. New York’s denizens took advantage of its massive subway system to get where they needed, and also stay conveniently warm.

Then a lonely, piercing wail pierced my ears. I glanced behind me as an ambulance came screeching down the long avenue, lights flashing. I watched as it sped past, envious of its speed (but not its cargo), wondering what poor sucker got hurt in weather like this.

Of course, I didn’t think it could get worse for those inside the vehicle when it suddenly crashed.

I almost couldn’t believe my eyes, even as it happened. First the ambulance swerved left, like it was about to make a turn -- but there was no road there, just apartments. Then it banked right, but the road was covered in snow and ice, and the tires had no traction. They squealed and screeched as the brakes proved useless, and I watched helplessly as the whole vehicle veered too far on its side, before overturning and slamming into the pavement.

It slid a good thirty feet before finally coming to a stop, plowing a long black trail of road behind it. By then, I was already running.

I nearly slipped and ate shit myself, but I managed to stay upright as I finally caught up with the vehicle. I wasn’t out of breath, though -- it had been several weeks since my run-in with Stick and his weird militant beliefs, and my healing finally caught up with the rest of my body. The ache in my shoulder was now only an echo of what it used to be, and I was finally getting back to my old self.

I hadn’t done any heroing yet, though, but I figured now might as well be as good a time as any.

Climbing on top of the vehicle, I got over to the door now facing the sky and wrapped my gloved around the broken window (being careful to avoid the shards of broken glass sticking out), and ripped the whole thing off.

The metal bent and gave easily under my strength, and I tossed it aside, peering into the dark confines of the ambulance. I could see movement inside. “Oh my god -- are you okay? I saw the crash!”

A hand reached out and I grabbed it, pulling out the paramedic, a woman with dark skin and curly hair. There was blood dripping from her temple, but for the most part she seemed all right. “T-thank you! We didn’t see the black ice -- Freddy tried to keep us steady but it--it didn’t work --”

The woman was trembling all over, but it didn’t seem to be from the cold. I saw the driver at the bottom of cabin, still buckled into his seat. “Well, at least you strapped in first. Hold on.”

I dropped in and crouched over the unconscious redheaded man, who was beginning to stir. It was even more cramped inside the vehicle than it would be if it was upright. I tapped his cheek, saying, “Hey, dude, wakey, wakey. We gotta get you out of here. I’m gonna pull you out, okay? Your buddy’s all right.”

He mumbled something incoherent, which I took for a ‘yes’. Ripping his seatbelt out of the buckle, I tossed it aside and gently pulled his arm out. I didn’t know if there was any internal damage, so I decided to play it safe.

Taking him out the top was going to be harder than I preferred, so instead I kicked against the windshield, which took a few tries before it finally broke. Clearing the glass from all the edges, I went back to the driver, picking him up.

Pulling him upright so his back was against my chest and my arms under his, I carefully bent down and carried him out, his feet dragging in the snow as we finally made it out into the freezing air. I set him down gently, taking a second as he finally opened his eyes and looked around. “...the hell happened?”

“You crashed,” I said curtly. “I pulled you out. You’re welcome, by the way.”

I looked around, but didn’t see the female paramedic, but I could hear her voice, speaking on her radio. Then there was a clanking sound as she opened the rear doors of the ambulance, and I stiffened, forgetting entirely why this ambulance was out here in the first place.

And yet when I ran around, I was stunned to see that the back of the ambulance was completely empty. The gurney was tossed about and broken, but no patient where they should have been. I glanced at the woman, confused, as she peered inside, before taking something out of the mess of fallen supplies. A red crate with a white cross on it.

“Great, now we’ll never get this to Detroit.” the woman muttered, falling against the bumper of the ambulance, looking exhausted.

“What do you mean?” I asked, pulling at the scarf around my face. I made sure to keep my face and hair covered, so they couldn’t identify me. So far, they hadn’t questioned anything, although whether it was from the cold or the shock, I didn’t know. “What is that?”

“It’s donor organs.” the male paramedic replied as he came around the truck, rubbing the back of his head. “We were supposed to get it to Saint Agatha’s as fast as possible. Well, actually, a helicopter outside of Albany, which would then fly it over...but obviously that’s not gonna happen.”

The female paramedic opening the lid and glancing inside. She let out a sigh of relief. “Good thing we kept this secured -- nothing damaged. But that’s not gonna mean much if this doesn’t get to the people who need it. This was going to patients who finally got to the top of the list, and we were the only ones with the right supplies...Metro-General was going to send a helicopter, but what with the storm and all, it was too dangerous to fly. I guess it was too dangerous to drive, too. This was the only ambulance the hospital could spare. We’re screwed.”

There was a look of utter despair on that woman’s face, and she cast her gaze about, forlorn. “Now those patients are going to die.”

I stared at the box, the gears starting to turn in my head. I could already hear the Doc’s voice, telling me this was a bad idea, but before I could stop myself, I said, “Maybe I can do it.”

The woman uttered a bewildered snort. The man gave me a funny look. Both said, “What?”

“Come on, you saw what I did.” I said, pointing to the door now tossed half a block away. The woman glanced over her shoulder, while the man did a double-take. “I can fly to Detroit. I can take that to the hospital. Which one did you say it was?”

“Saint Agatha’s, downtown,” the male paramedic said, looking seriously doubtful. “Who the hell are you? You’re just some kid.”

That’s when I dropped my backpack and pulled off my coat, revealing the bright red crest underneath. I watched with a small smile as the paramedics eyes widened in shock and recognition. “Not just any kid.”

I had been working on my new suit ever since I burned the old one, and now I was pleased to finally get to show it off. Actually, today had been my dress rehearsal, testing the movement and comfort of the thing before deciding it was battle-ready. I still wasn’t sure about the last part, but the suit fit me like a glove. And thanks to the new enhancements I made compared to the old one, it was perfectly up to the task of handling some high-flying, below-freezing adventures.

“Holy shit,” the male paramedic said, looking like he was about to pass out again. “I thought you died -- we all did. But you were here, the whole time?”

“Kinda,” I said, shrugging as I bent down and pulled my helmet from my backpack. I still carried it around, for safekeeping. And, well, for emergencies like this. “I got hurt a while back, took some time off. I’m thinking of getting back into the game. If you let me, of course.”

The two paramedics glanced at each other, sharing some unspoken words. The woman just raised her eyebrows and made a face, like _why not._ Then she said, “It’s not like the package is going to get there now anyway. We might as well give it a shot.”

The driver nodded once, then looked back at me, rubbing his chin. “You promise to get it there on time? It needs to get there in less than four hours.”

“Have you even been to Detroit?” the woman asked.

“No, but I heard it’s a nice place.” I said with a wry smile. “I can get there in the half the time it’ll take you. You got something for me to carry that in, because I don’t think my schoolbag is gonna cut it.”

“Uh, sure,” the guy said as he climbed into the back of the ambulance, searching for something, while the woman continued to give me a critical look.

“Schoolbag? You still in high school?” she asked, frowning. “I got kids older than you, missy. What kind of fool girl goes around in a suit and making all the wrong people angry?”

“The kind of fool girl with powers, obviously,” I said, fitting on my helmet (hat still on, because why not). I pulled off my scarf and the rest of my civvies, plopping them into my schoolbag and zipping it shut, then kicking it away. I wouldn’t be taking it with me. Pointing at it, I said, “If you have any respect for me and what I do, don’t go looking inside and trying to figure out who I am. I’ll come back and pick it up at Metro-General when I’m done.”

The woman just scoffed and shook her head. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing. Being Falcon ain’t no way to live your life.”

I just heaved a sigh, rolling my eyes. Why did adults always think they knew better than me? Why did they give me advice I didn’t ask for? I just held out my hand and said, “Just give me the stupid package before anyone dies, okay?”

The man pulled out what looked like some army surplus backpack looking thing, with a hard casing all around and five different straps. Although green, it had a bright white caduceus on the back of it. “Well, didn’t think we’d ever get to use this old thing. Make sure not to do any of that crazy crime fighting stuff while you’ve got the package, okay? We can’t afford to have the organs damaged in any way. At least the weather will keep it cold and fresh. And there’s a tracker in the bag. Not really for you, just so the Albany pilots can track you.”

The woman slipped the red crate into the backpack, already stuffed with blankets and plastic wrap to keep it from moving around too much. Then they handed it to me, and as I slid it over my shoulders, I checked my gauntlets, making sure that the ice hadn’t frozen the metal together.

“You got this?” the man asked like he still wasn’t sure about this.

“This isn’t my first time saving a life,” I said, then backtracked and added, “Well, here at least. But I’ve always wanted to travel. Besides, it's not like anything bad’s gonna happen. It’s gonna take a lot more than a storm to stop me.”

“Well, I hope you’re right,” the woman said, heaving a final sigh. “We’ll radio the plane in Albany -- they’ll escort you to Detroit. It’ll take too long for you to deliver the package and for them to take off. They’ll make sure everyone knows you’re with us.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” I said, thinking it was a little unnecessary. Who would think I would show up to cause trouble? Unsheathing my wings, I asked, “Got any other helpful advice before I go?”

“Um,” the male paramedic thought about for a moment. “Don’t die, please.”

“Wonderful, thank you.”

And with that, I was off. One mighty flap, and I was in the air, soaring up and over the buildings.

I gasped despite myself, completely forgetting what it was like to fly. For a second, I felt extreme vertigo as the buildings narrowed beneath me, and the people and cars turned to ants -- the paramedics watched me as I continued to go up, waving and hollering something I couldn’t hear, before finally disappearing into the thick concrete jungle below.

Suddenly the roads and bridges didn’t matter anymore as Manhattan turned into a toyset beneath me. I was startled by the weightlessness I felt, the sensation of being at the whim of the winds, the slight shake and shudder as the wings moved and adjusted to the currents rushing by.

In that moment, as I flew over the slate gray Hudson river, the city unusually soft and quiet, I felt intense fear. What if I forgot how to fly? What if I couldn’t make it to Detroit? I had never flown that long or far before? What if I couldn’t do it? What if I wasn’t strong enough yet? What if those people died because I overestimated myself?

 _No, don’t think like that_. I told myself, refusing to cave in and turn back. It was too late now. I was well into New Jersey. I couldn’t disappoint those paramedics. _You can do this. All you have to do is fly. Flying was always the easy part. There aren’t any bad guys to stop you this time. You’re free._

That last word resonated in my head, and I dwelled on it, marveled at its sweet strangeness. _Free_. For the first time in months, I was free. I had forgotten what it felt like, what it meant to be untethered from the world, to no longer be a part of it, but something else; something smaller, something bigger, something that wasn’t anything at all.

I could be myself again. And no one could tell me different.

I rose higher and higher, quickly calculating how far I had to go with how much time I had left. Three hours? Well, I didn’t have the speed of a typical airliner, but I could make do. How far was Michigan, anyways?

Higher and higher I went -- higher than I had ever been before. Well, no, that’s not true. There was that one time with Dr. Grace that had been rather unpleasant. I reminded myself not to do that again -- I wouldn’t last very long in the thin air of the upper atmosphere. Even though it was slower going at human-safe heights, I’d rather not, you know, _suffocate_.

That’d be a hell of a way to go.

The winds were manageable at least. Although the storm was still pushing through the northeast, I had yet to come across the worst of it, and so far I hadn’t come into any trouble. I coasted through turbulence and icy clouds, my insulated suit taking the worst of it. The exercise of working the wings kept my bloodrate up, and my body warm.

I had no idea where Albany was, though, and I was making my best guess as to wear it was going to be. The world was white and gray below me, an indeterminable mix of snow, buildings, and trees. I could follow the roads, at least, but even those seem largely abandoned.

It had only been an hour, though. How far had I gone since then?

Then I saw it, far below. A small plane, maybe ten passengers, cruising several hundred feet below. I saw the Red Cross marking its wings and smiled.

Oh, good, that was a lot easier than I thought.

Then I heard a long, low whistling sound.

I almost didn’t notice it at first. But since I was so used to hearing only the wind, I picked up on it pretty quick. But where was it coming from? It wasn’t from the plane below -- it wouldn’t make a sound like that, what with its big propellor engines and all.

Then what…?

That’s when I looked over my shoulder and saw two large drone ships appearing out of the clouds, like silver ghosts. My stomach did a backflip at the sight.

Oh, great. I had just caught the attention of the US Airforce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Inside joke for Americans. For those who don't live in the US, Detroit is not a very nice place.


	31. Hostis Humani Generis

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**Hostis Humani Generis**

* * *

 

I banked hard.

Down, down I went, trying to shake them. I was small, I had maneuverability to my advantage, but I didn’t have rockets strapped to my back, so I was going to have a hell of a time getting rid of these guys. How did they even find me? Did I fly too high?

The drones, robots in perfect sync, followed, engines whistling. I felt my ears pop as I went down, felt distance growing between me and the planes — only to be bridged by gunfire.

Bullets the size of my head shot past, blazing red bolts straight out of a sci-fi film. I gasped, before doing a barrel roll to the right, metal wings slicing through the air, curving through the currents.

I couldn’t let them get a lock on me. I flapped hard, throwing myself upwards, then dropping down again. I caught a draft and it carried me wide.

I glanced over my shoulder, saw the drones banking hard to keep me in their line of sight. I had no idea where these came from, or who exactly was controlling them, but I was going to give them one hell of a time.

More bullets shot past. One pinged off my left wing, knocking my arm forward and down. I cried out as I was suddenly spiraling out of control, my flight pattern thrown into complete chaos.

I dropped for maybe ten seconds before I was able to right myself again. The wing smoldered from impact, but I was surprised to see, after the smoke faded, that the feathers were hardly damaged.

Well, damn.

But I was a lot less bullet proof than my wings, and I wasn’t about to give these drones a second chance to shoot me down.

Spinning around so I was flying on my back, I faced the drones still coming after me. They were a little farther away, perhaps thinking I was dead after that first hit, but the closest one was in for a surprise when I threw out my hands, wings shielding my torso as I summoned a powerful gust of energy that landed right on its nose.

The drone shuddered slightly just before impact — then it was ripped apart, nose to tail, as the force of my blow ruptured the metal of its nose, bisecting it, before rendering apart the mechanics inside.

_BOOM!_

A wave of heat washed over me, a split second before the blast caught my wings and sent me upwards. I watched as the remnants of the drone fell, pieces of metal and sparks spiraling into the endless forest below.

Then I turned around and kept going.

The last drone still hot on my tail, I zig-zagged, trying to throw it off. Less than a hundred meters away, it was too close, and getting closer. If one of its bullets hit me from here, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

Weaving back and forth, I hoped the basic tactic of avoiding gunfire on ground might work up here in the air. But I failed to account for the extra dimension of height — the drone was above me, bigger, and had the ease of being the one with more guns.

I didn’t have the space to turn around and deliver the finishing blow on this drone as I did the last one. Any wrong move and I was going to be filled with holes — I had to focus on just avoiding the gunfire, with barely enough time to even consider retaliating.

It couldn’t maneuver as well as me, though. If I had that, at least, I might as well use it.

Another hail of bullets came for me, and I twisted my body, now flying perpendicular to the ground as the bright hot bolts shot past me. I veered hard to the left, angling downwards as more fire went over my head, before going right again, just barely staying out of the line of fire.

I was making a slow descent, and luckily the drone was going for it. The tree tops below me were starting to thin a little — through the thick fog appeared a huge stretch of water. A Great Lake? It must be Lake Ontario. I was getting close to Detroit now. I had to lose the drone before I got there, or otherwise be cause an international incident. I wasn’t really known for those, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.

The water was a great sheen of empty gray glass below me, stretching out as I flew over. Looking down, I could see my reflection, as well as that of the drone, like ghosts of an old dogfight.

As the drone let off another volley of gunfire, I nose-dived. At this height and velocity, if I hit water, it’d be just as bad as getting hit by an oncoming train — or worse. Nonetheless, I tucked in my wings, narrowing my form as I picked up speed.

With me suddenly falling out of range, the drone had to follow, its nose following my direct line of flight.

The water was getting closer. I could hear the engines of the drone behind me, whistling against the wind. It lowered in pitch as the drone got closer.

Just as the lake was starting to look like the pavement of New York City, I unfurled my wings, and the backdraft launched me up and backwards.

I flipped in mid-air, timing it just right so I went over the top of the drone following me. My feet landed on its back, and I pushed off to give myself that extra push to get myself out of range as the engine screamed and the nose of the drone made splashdown.

A geyser exploded beneath me, fire and water combined, as metal crunched against the surface tension of the water. I couldn’t help but smile as I spiraled back up into the sky, looking down at the wreckage of the last drone. Lake 1, Drone 0.

But I before I could think of celebrating, something exploded behind me.

I cried out as I was blasted forward, head over heels and nearly lost all flight capabilities before I right myself again. Spinning around, I located the new threat.

A lone fighter jet, already firing another missile at me.

“Ugh, I don’t have time for this!” I shouted at no one in particular. The missile was big enough and slow enough for my to catch with my mind — I meant to direct it away from me, of course, but I was so angry I didn’t really consider the new direction I slung it in.

So of course I threw it back at the jet.

The pilot, panicking at the sight of his missile seemingly redirecting itself of its own accord, banked hard, trying to avoid it.

He was a little too slow.

The missile clipped the tip of the jet’s right wing — barely a scratch, but enough for the missile to explode and send the jet into a wild tailspin.

As I watched it fall towards the Lake, I was just about ready to call it a day and head for Detroit, finally. But as I started to make distance, it occurred to me that something was wrong.

The pilot hadn’t ejected from his cockpit yet.

I paused. There was no way that jet was going to survive the fall into the lake. We were thousands of feet in the air, and he didn’t have much air to begin with if he wanted to live via parachute.

I really wanted to go. I was so angry, so frustrated with whoever these guys were, thinking I was a threat, nearly destroying me and the medical supplies I needed to deliver. I didn’t even know what happened to that plane I was supposed to meet with — I lost track of it ages ago.

The pilot had only a few seconds before his fate was sealed. And I knew, as much as it pained me, that the lives saved with these medical supplies wouldn’t mean anything if someone else died because of me.

So I heaved a sigh and turned around.

Zipping back towards the falling jet, I slowed down enough to get close to the window — the jet was still spinning, wings on fire, and pilot unmoving inside the cockpit. The glass was cracked. It seemed the explosion must’ve knocked him out. Red lights were flashing inside the cockpit, along with a high pitched siren that even I could hear, outside. But none of it could wake the comatose pilot.

I slammed my fists into the windshield. The cracks widened, but it wasn’t fast enough. I found the edges of the glass, and with as much force as I could muster, ripped it off its latches. The concave shape caught the wind and I didn’t even need to use my powers to let the wind rip the glass away. It spun into the sky, forgotten.

I first went for the straps keeping the pilot in his seat — I had no idea where the eject button, or whatever it was called, was located, and I didn’t have the time to look. Instead, I took the seat wholesale out of the cockpit, the metal bending and breaking easily under my will; it certainly helped when I had my anger fueling me.

There was a loud _crack_ as the pilot was finally released, and with a strong grip on the seat, I kicked the jet away, sending it spinning into the Lake. Still plummeting, I grabbed the handle on the side of the chair and yanked as hard as I could, releasing the parachute.

I threw myself away from the pilot as the sheets unfurled above him, and his velocity decreased dramatically. Now he was making a slow, wobbling descent towards ground.

With my wings, I directed the winds and pushed him over to a fishing boat a quarter of a mile away. There were fishermen waiting, pointing at me and the wreckage I left. They had probably seen the whole thing from the deck, a nice little change in their average fishing day.

I was glad they didn’t protest as I helped direct the still-unconscious pilot to their boat. When he was close enough, the team of about half a dozen men reached up and brought him aboard, cutting the strings of the parachute and pulling the man out of the straps of his seat.

Maybe it was the smell of the fish, or the subconscious notion he was no longer in danger, the pilot finally woke up; blinking about blearily, he shook his head and looked about. He yelped and nearly fell over when he saw me. With a shaky finger, he pointed, saying, “Y-you — you’re not —”

“Stop trying to kill me!” I shouted, dropping down on the boat and storming right up to him. Maybe it was unnecessary, but I had had enough of this madness, and at least I had a face to put to it. “I’m American, I’m not a threat! I’m just trying to help people!”

“You were flying in international airspace!” the pilot said, stumbling away from me, the fear in his eyes apparent. A few fishermen snickered — it must’ve been a funny sight, seeing a grown man, a government-trained pilot being cowed by a tiny girl with a loud voice. Some had even taken out their phones, snapping pictures. “We couldn’t make radio contact with you. General Ross ordered to take you out. What else were we supposed to think?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” Ripping the backpack off, I presented it to him, jabbing a finger at the symbol the back. “What does this look like to you?”

“It’s – it’s…” the pilot blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing in speechlessness. “It’s a Red Cross. I…I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well!” I said, whipping the bag back on. “It’s for some sick people in Detroit. It’s from New York City! The storm’s cut off roads and I was the only one who could help. Contact Metro-General, they’ll tell you everything.”

That’s when I heard a distant plane engine. Fearing that the Airforce had sent back-up, I looked up, only to see a bi-plane coming out of the clouds over the treetops. It spotted the fishing boat and tipped its wings at us, before making a soft turn left, towards Lake Erie. A clear sign for me to follow.

“And _that_ ,” I added, pointed at the plane. “Is my escort. Make radio contact with _them_ , if you want. And tell your boss to _stop shooting at me!_ ”

I turned my back to the pilot, unsheathing my wings in preparation to take off again, when the pilot said behind me: “He doesn’t trust your kind.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “What? My kind?”

“Yeah, you know,” the pilot shrugged, making air quotes with his fingers. “They call you ‘Gifted’. People with superpowers. You’re a danger to everyone. It’s just a matter of time before someone gets hurt.”

“Really? Because it looks to me I just saved your life.” I said, scoffing. “Maybe tell that to General Ross. And if I come into any more trouble on my way to Detroit or back, I’ll raise all the hell you’re afraid of.”

And before he could reply, I took off, feeling slightly more vindicated. As the Lake became smaller beneath me, I let out a huge breath, letting myself relax a little.

Man, maybe I just really needed to let those feelings out.

 

* * *

 

 

I made it to Detroit with time to spare.

The plane led me to a landing strip on the West side of the Detroit. Waiting there was also an ambulance, of which the occupants of the plane got into — not waiting for me to land, they directed me towards the hospital, which took me mere minutes to reach, while for them nearly half an hour.

The hospital was located in downtown Detroit, which was surprisingly full of traffic. Snow was still falling, but no one seemed particularly bothered — or at least didn’t care enough to stop what they were doing. Ambulances were coming in and out of the emergency care center, and I could tell from the looks of the nurses waiting for me that today had not been a good day for them.

I landed, delivering the closest the package. Thanks were exchanged, another picture taken for posterity, before the paramedics remembered they still had lives to save. They disappeared into the hospital, relaying messages on their radios, my presence immediately forgotten.

I turned around, ready to take off again, when a black car drove up to the curb right in front of me. I paused, watching warily as the door opened. There was something too leisurely about the car’s speed and the man coming out of the vehicle — as well as the _type_ of car, which was expensive, to say the least — that said that this man was not in need of immediate medical care.

The first thing I noticed about him was his uniform, a blue suit with golden pins and bars. The man was also tall, middle-aged, but built like a brick wall. He had a severe look about him, all white-haired with a small beard. He seemed vaguely familiar, like I might’ve seen him on TV once, but I had a good feeling who he was nonetheless.

My suspicions were confirmed when he approached me, flanked by two other men in green uniforms (and guns), and held out a hand to me. “You must be the Falcon. What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I looked at the hand, then back up at him. “You’re General Ross.”

“Well, someone’s been paying attention.” He said, withdrawing his shunned hand and tucking both behind his back. There was a tension in his voice that said that he was having a hard time remaining civil like this; I wasn’t sure why. Was it because we were in front of a hospital? Because we were in public? I could see civilians out of the corner of my eye, watching this strange scene unfold before them. “You blew three of my planes out of the sky.”

“To be fair, they shot first.”

General Ross tilted his head at me, shifting slightly on his feet. His stance was entirely too formal, back straight, almost painful to look at. He looked like he had a stick up his ass. “You made quite the headline today. Superhero Braves Snowmaggedon to Help Hospitals. I don’t think even Spider-Man’s ever done something like that before. You must be proud of yourself.”

I could hear the thinly veiled contempt in his voice. Man, that pilot wasn’t joking when he said Ross didn’t like us. I crossed my arms and said, “Just doing my job.”

“Your job?” General Ross smirked, like he thought that was funny. “How cute. But you don’t really have an employer, do you?”

“I work for the people,” I said, turning my head as General Ross stepped around me. He seemed to be taking in the scenery, but he could’ve been staking out the place for all I knew. “I protect them. Like you do.”

“Oh, no,” General Ross chuckled, his back to me as he shook his head. He faced me again, saying, “ _My_ job is to protect the nation from things like _you_ , Falcon. Things that pose a threat, that scare people. Do you know what I do to things like you?”

I really did not appreciate being called a _thing_. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Hmph,” General Ross made a face — I guess backtalk isn’t very well-respected in the military. He glanced at his watch before meeting my gaze. “I’m going to tell you the story of a man I used to work with. He was a scientist, a brilliant man, charged with changing the very idea how wars will be won in the future. But he was also a man who thought he knew everything. His name was Bruce Banner.”

I remained silent as Ross spoke, stunned. He knew the Doc? They knew each other? This was starting to feel an awful lot like déjà vu, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

“I must admit, I didn’t much like this scientist, this Dr. Banner. He didn’t care for the service of his country, of its needs, of it fears. He just wanted to see how far it could go, what he could make. A regular Doctor Frankenstein. Well, I don’t have to tell you how that story goes, do I?”

“Frankenstein creates a monster,” I said, my throat going dry. I knew where this was going. Was he saying Dr. Banner created the Hulk? How? Is that why he was in hiding? “You’re talking about the Hulk, aren’t you? How he destroyed Harlem?”

“Clever girl. You know what you and the Hulk have in common?”

I thought about it, but didn’t find much. The Hulk was a superstrong big green buy, and I was a tiny girl with psychic powers. “Uh, not really.”

“You lose your temper,” General Ross answered, pinning me with a cold look, as though accusing me of some terrible crime. “But unlike normal people, who just yell and punch walls when they’re upset, when _you_ do, entire city blocks are destroyed. A wall can be fixed, but lost lives can’t. Innocent people always get caught in the crossfire, and then the rest become afraid. But it’s not like you can control yourselves, can you?”

“I _am_ in control!” I snapped, my fists clenching. I took a step forwards, but heard clicking behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Ross’ guards had raised their guns. At me.

“Really?” Ross snorted, smirking at me as he took out a cigar and lit it, before taking a drag. “Is that what you call control when you endangered the life of my pilot and those fishermen? When you sent debris over the heads of innocent Americans? Ripping apart entire buildings with just your mind?” He smiled when I jolted in surprise. “Oh, yes, I know how your powers work, Falcon. You’re not the first psychic I’ve met, and you probably won’t be the last. You see, people like that scientist and the Hulk, they deserve to be locked up. They deserve to see justice for their actions. You believe in justice, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer that. He already knew the answer.

“You walk a very thin line, Falcon. You break the law to serve the law. You bring criminals to justice, while hiding your ownself from it. The hypocrisy is truly outstanding — how do you even live with yourself in that mindset? How can you even call yourself a hero?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. I wanted to refute Ross’ point, but I couldn’t find the flaw in his argument. I was avoiding the law, I couldn’t let myself get caught. I hid my fact to protect my family, but I _did_ this because I thought it was right. Because I thought it was the only way. What else could I do?

I thought I was helping people — but what if I was making it worse? I knew some people were afraid of me, it was unavoidable. But I didn’t think it was bad enough to earn the attention of the _military_. Of people like General Ross, who probably had bigger fish to fry.

I guess that was the point of being a vigilante. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Ross know he’d won this battle. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

General Ross laughed, a puff of smoke escaping his mouth. “Ah, right, the go-to excuse for people who know they’ve made mistakes but don’t want to fix them. Why am I not surprised? Dr. Banner said something like that to me just before he created the most dangerous creature on this planet.”

He just shook his head again, turning back towards the car. “I hope you don’t end up like him, Falcon. The only worse thing than being a guilty man behind bars is a guilty man on the run. I’ll catch him one day. I’ll hope you’ll be there to see it.”

“Wait, that’s the end of the story?” I asked, just before General Ross could disappear back into his car. “Are you saying Dr. Banner is like Frankenstein?”

“Oh, no,” Ross paused to appraise me with glittering eyes. “You’d know the truth if you read the story. The doctor didn’t just create a monster; He _is_ the monster.”

The car door slammed shut, the guards put away their guns, and then they were gone, taking General Ross and disappearing into the snowy streets of Detroit.


	32. Mens Rea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but important.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**Mens Rea**

* * *

 

 

Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he was so worried.

This girl was going to be the death of him.

It was dark out. It had been dark out for quite a while now. Every once and a while, between paces, he’d look out the window, to check for her, only to see his own reflection looking back in the dark glass. The frustration only mounted as weather reports told of road closings and black-outs. What if Amelia was lost out there, in the snow? What if she was cold, or hurt, or trapped? He couldn’t do anything, he was _stuck here_ —

The door opened.

A cold blast of air blew through the house, casting snowflakes and paper across the living room. Bruce brought up his arm to protect his face from the unexpected wind, and when the door slammed shut, he brought it down and set his eyes on the girl slumped against his door.

He wasn’t sure if he should be angry or relieved. Amelia wasn’t very communicative to begin with, so the fact that she had been _out there_ , doing _who knows what_.

Angry seemed appropriate. “Jesus, where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea —”

“An ambulance crashed,” she cut him off, although there wasn’t much sharpness to her tone. Her arms hung at her sides like they weighed more than she could carry. Amelia looked positively exhausted. “Black ice. I had to help.”

“And you didn’t think to maybe tell me this before you disappeared for six hours?” Bruce demanded, trying not to lose his steam over that. It was hard to be angry at someone who had pure motivations, even if they were being extremely stupid about it.

“It was an emergency. I had to fly donor organs to a hospital.” Amelia winced as she pulled herself off the door, dropping her backpack by the couch and looking ready she might sleep on that, too. “I’m sorry, really. I kind of…got caught up in the moment.”

He sighed, hands on his hips. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but at least she was being honest. And apologized.

Bruce decided to cast aside his anger for a moment; the girl looked exhausted. Letting his hands fall to his sides, he asked, “And when’s the last time you ate?”

“Uh,” Amelia had to think about it. “This morning. Yeah. Breakfast.” When he sighed again, she threw him an annoyed look. “Can you please stop doing that?”

“I will if you start taking care of yourself, for once,” Bruce muttered, schlepping it over to the kitchen. It was past dinner time, but at this point he was used to the odd hours of making meals. He never had to worry about left-overs when Amelia was around — she ate more than _he_ did.

The girl made a noise of complaint, but didn’t argue the point, which Bruce appreciated. He really didn’t want to get into an argument about responsibility right then.

Amelia eventually followed him, leaning against the doorway as he grabbed clean plates from the dish rack next to the sink. Bruce was starting to think it was a little strange how she hadn’t met his eyes since she got home, and wondered if something else had happened she wasn’t telling him about.

He was just about to open his mouth, to ask her to help, but the girl spoke first.

“Why is the US Air Force after you?”

The bowl dropped from his hand, clattering into the sink. All feeling disappeared from his fingers and he grasped the edge of the counter when the breath escaped from his lungs.

How did she know? _What_ did she know? _Who_ told her? There was a reason he was living in anonymity – because only a certain few knew the meaning behind his identity, the truth beneath the skin.

He didn’t realize he had gotten lost in a reverie until Amelia’s voice called him back. “Doc?”

Bruce looked up, startled to find her still standing there in the doorway — as if she hadn’t run away by now — swathed in a blanket that swept against the floor. Her expression was unreadable; Bruce expected to see fear, hate, distrust, but none seemed apparent. She just seemed too tired to express any emotion at all.

Leaning against the sink, Bruce clenched the edge and eyed her, uncertain. “How...who told you? Where did you go?”

“Some dude named General Ross,” she said and his heart started to pound. Oh, god, it was even worse than he thought. But if that crazed war hero was in New York City, he would’ve know about it. “I met him in Detroit.”

Detroit? As in Detroit, _Michigan?_ How? “What the hell were you doing all the way over there?”

He sounded more accusing than he meant to; it came from a combination of fear, confusion, and concern over her well-being (and mental process. _Detroit?!_ ). But of course it didn’t come out that way, and Amelia took it at face value.

Scowling, the girl got defensive. “I _told_ you — I was delivering donor organs and medical supplies, for a hospital there. Because of the ambulance crash, they’d never get there before expiring. Without me, the supplies would’ve never gotten there on time.”

“And the supplies were for Ross?”

“No,” the girl hesitated and Bruce realized that there was indeed more to this story than he first thought. Amelia sighed and said, “I flew too high and got noticed by the Air Force – they sent drones after me, thinking I was an enemy weapon or something. I managed to get rid of them!” she added at the look of alarm on his face; this did not make it better. “One in a wheat field in Ohio, I think, and another in Lake Erie. No one got hurt, except maybe some fish.”

“They tracked you to Detroit?”

“They were waiting for me at the hospital. They had figured out from the pack I was carrying and checking hospital air waves and finally figured out I wasn’t there to hurt anyone. General Ross had some issues with me destroying millions of dollars of government property. And whether I have actual powers or not.”

“Of course he does,” Bruce muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. The man was afraid of anything he didn’t understand, which happened to be a lot of things. Any problem that didn’t solve itself, Ross just threw more bullets at it until it went away. To Amelia, Bruce said, “And you told him?”

“Come on, give me some credit!” Amelia complained, throwing out her arms. “I knew the guy was an asshole the second I met him. He only brought you up when I didn’t give him what he wanted. You were an example, a traitor to the US now living on the run, a constant danger to the public.”

“Did he say...how?” Bruce didn’t want to say explicitly what it was unless she already knew. If she did, he had no idea why she would be standing here right now, still talking to him.

“I don’t know,” Amelia shrugged, making a face. “Your old-man shoes? Ross seems like the kind of guy who’s afraid of anyone who’s smarter than him.”

Bruce was so relieved he laughed a little. For once he was thankful for Ross’ massive ego – the man saw his task so important, so dangerous that he trusted no outsider to know about it. “That sums him up pretty well. I guess after the first Ph.D, I should’ve quit while I was ahead.”

The very thought of having his secret revealed — that General Ross could still somehow upset everything, even without trying — nearly gave Bruce a heart attack (as if _that_ could kill him). What was the General doing in Detroit, anyways? Was he still looking for Bruce, following some trail? Bruce had never been in the city, at least not since the Accident, but he did know some people there. Maybe that’s what Ross wanted?

It was hard to say, and there was no way Bruce could be sure. There was no way he was going to contact his old friends, either, in case it was true.

Still, he couldn’t shake the thought from his mind, and continued to ruminate on it as he cooked. Amelia found a place at the kitchen table, resting her head on the wooden surface and apparently having fallen asleep there. The sight was kind of cute, Bruce had to admit. This was the sort of thing parents took pictures of to laugh about later, out of nostalgia and embarrassing their now-grown kids.

Bruce just shook his head, smiling to himself. If he ever took a picture of Amelia, he had a feeling she might just break the camera.

When he placed the bowl of soup in front of her, the girl jolted — she really _had_ been asleep, and Bruce almost regretted waking her. Food didn’t really seem like a priority to her, but he wasn’t letting her go to bed on an empty stomach.

The girl raised her nose, peering into the bowl. “You’re like a one-trick pony. You only make soup.”

“It’s nine o’ clock. What did you expect, a five course meal?”

“No,” Amelia said lightly, and took up the spoon nonetheless. Yet, Bruce swore she muttered, “ _Originality_ ” under her breath.

He decided not to comment on it, for the sake of peace.

The plan worked out. Amelia barely had enough energy to eat, and thus didn’t waste too much breathe on words aside from basic conversation. But as the soup started to settle in her, Bruce could see her gain a little bit of energy back, the light back in her eyes. Would she try staying up longer now that she was working on calories?

When she got up to put her empty bowl in the sink, Amelia asked, “So, I was thinking —”

“Nope,” Bruce said loudly, gently guiding her out of the room with a hand on her shoulder. “No more talking. Time for bed, you,”

Amelia dragged her feet, throwing him a dissatisfied look. “A bed time, are you serious? I’m _seventeen_.”

“You’re also living in my house, so you live by my rules,” Bruce replied. There wasn’t any real threat in that statement – if Amelia didn’t want to go to sleep, there wasn’t too much he could do about that. But considering it was after midnight (again) and she just made a six hour flight in the midst of a massive snowstorm, he felt like he made a pretty good judgement call.

His theory proved correct. Amelia’s resistance was only half-hearted and climbed up the stairs without much complaint. She didn’t even bother turning on lights to her room before flopping on the bed. Bruce reached to flick off the switch for the hallway light, and it occurred to him that Midtown High had canceled for the next day.

“Oh, before I forget, your school –” Bruce started, but his voice died in his throat as he turned around and saw Amelia fast asleep. Bruce decided she could be pleasantly surprised in the morning, after she slept in, that she had nothing to worry about.

The man smiled to himself as he closed the door, shutting it as gently as possibly. “Good night, Amelia.”


	33. Terra Nullius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I didn't have access to the episode this takes place (S2 Ep. 12 "Opening Night") so pretty much all of the dialogue I had to come up with wholesale. I remember the basic plot, so it shouldn't be too far off from what happened in the show.

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**Terra Nullius**

* * *

 

 

“This is, by far, the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Oh, come on!” Spider-Man said from his cell, throwing out his arms. “It’s going to be fine — it’s not like its real or anything! Think of it like a video game!”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, crossing my arms and huffing. There was something very off about being trapped in a small cell, with only white walls and a camera to keep me company. I knew I was being watched, being studied, and it made the back of my neck tingle. “This doesn’t scream ‘trap’ at all.”

“Falcon, just relax. The Vault’s supposed to hold bad guys, and we aren’t bad guys!” Spider-Man pointed out, as if we weren’t currently being watched by three of New York’s most powerful men at this very moment.

“ _What a refreshing insight_ ,” came the cool tone of none other than Norman Osborn over the speakers. I tried not to shiver at his voice, and succeeded only marginally. Just because Norman wasn’t the Goblin didn’t mean I had to like him. “ _I’m glad you at least decided to cooperate with us tonight, Spider-Man. And happened to convince your friend Falcon to come along, too. This will surely give us more data to work with when we start upgrading the Vault’s security measures.”_

Right, that’s what we were here for.

It was kind of a political move, I suppose, when Norman Osborn ‘arrested’ us and had us locked into the Vault — a high-security prison meant for super-freaks like us. Maybe it was to show how friendly we were to the police and the city, that we trusted them to contain us for a short while; or maybe it was to show how powerful Osborn was, being able to lock two of New York’s heroes in the same place without a fight. It was starting to look like the last one to me.

The Vault was funded by Oscorp (no surprise there), and Norman decided to invite J. Jonah Jameson along to report it later, surely because the man was an unbiased critique and would only give a fair review of what would happen tonight. There was also Captain Stacy, someone who I liked and trusted considerably more than the other two, but I had yet to hear his voice.

“See?” Spider-Man hooked a thumb up at the ceiling. He seemed oddly relaxed despite the fact that it was _Norman Osborn_ talking. “Totally safe. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

Was he really so confident? I mean, Spider-Man always kind of had a big head, but maybe he was right. It wasn’t like Norman could keep us in here forever. I was about to consider it, when another voice came through the overhead speaker: “ _That’s what you think, Spider-Man! But you’re a menace! You belong in here, just like the rest of them! Good riddance, if you ask me._ ”

We both winced at the grating noise of Jameson’s voice, who sounded way happier than I had ever heard him. I threw a glare at Spider-Man, who could only cringe helplessly. He admitted, “Okay, clearly _he_ doesn’t think so, but still, we’ll be fine!”

“ _Ha!_ ” Jameson’s voice crackled through the speakers. It made me want to rip them out of the walls. Of course they could hear everything we said. “ _You can try, Spider-Man, but this facility is state-of-the-art! The doors are pressure locked and we have eyes on you the whole time. There’s no web-slinging your way out of this one! You’ll never see the light of day ag – what, hey! Give that back!”_

Jameson’s voice was replaced by the much calmer, much more welcome voice of Captain Stacy. “ _Spider-Man, Falcon, the Vault was built for the most dangerous criminals in New York City; this includes all of the ones with unique, er, gifts, I guess you could say. Now, our good friend Norman Osborn hadn’t designed one for either of you; the cells you’re standing in are the basic containment for new inmates, before they’re moved into a more appropriate setting. We want you to find any weaknesses the REAL inmates might try to exploit._

 _“Mr. Jameson and I, along with the coordinators, will keep track of your progress in the control room.”_ Stacy continued. His voice turned serious, or more serious than it already was. _“I must warn you, though, that all security measures will treat you as hostiles if and when you get out; please be careful.”_

There was a scratching noise as the mic was grabbed again. Jameson added, sneering, _“— OR YOU CAN JUST STAY IN YOUR CELL WHERE YOU BEL –”_

“ _Please no shouting, Jameson_ ,” Stacy interrupted. I could just hear him rolling his eyes. “ _You might damage the recording equipment_.”

“— _what’s THAT supposed to mean ­—”_

 _“Good luck, you two,”_ Stacy added.

“ _And as a reminder_ ,” came Norman’s drawl one last time, the mic picking up Jameson’s continued yelling in the background. “ _The equipment used in the Vault is very expensive. Please, try your best to NOT destroy everything you touch, as you heroes are so prone to do.”_

_“ — if you so much as show your face outside of this Vault again, Spider-Man, I will personally —”_

_“Mr. Jameson, I would ask that you calm yourself_ ,” Norman Osborn spoke with a voice that could freeze lava. “ _Before I have you removed for disrupting this exercise.”_

The mic cut out, just before we got to hear Jameson’s response, which probably wasn’t pleasant. I relaxed, instantly relieved to be rid of their voices.

To Spider-Man, I said, “Well, any ideas?”

“Uh,” he tapped the thick glass that made up the small round window in his door. Between us and the doors was a metal hallway. No guards as far as I could tell, but cameras, little round domes attached to the walls and ceilings, everywhere. “Not yet. Walls seem airtight. Think you can try something?”

“They’re too dense for me to move…you know. Maybe we should try looking at it from a different perspective?”

“Aw, darn,” Spider-Man jumped so he was hanging upside from his fingers and toes on the ceiling, apparently taking my advice literally. “And to think we had an easy answer to all of this. Guess we’ll have to MacGuyver our way out of here then.”

He rubbed his chin for a second, thinking for a second. I leaned against the wall, watching Spider-Man as he extended his arm and shot web at the camera by the door, then the one behind him. “Well, these are annoying. Might as well take care of that, first.”

That instantly triggered a response: there was the sound of hissing, and I watched through the windows as gas started to fill up in Spider-Man’s cell. Panicked, I jumped up, pounding against the glass as the gas filled up, swallowing up the cell in a dense haze. “Spidey! What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“ _He’s triggered the basic defense mechanism in the cells,_ ” Norman’s voice replied, which I did not expect or want. “ _Blocking any cameras instantly unleashes a knock-out gas which will incapacitate the occupant inside.”_

Damn. I glanced up at the ceiling, eyeing the pipes lining the ceiling. Well, guess I won’t be trying _that_ any time soon.

Now I could hear boots thundering down the halls as the Vault’s guards came to check to see what was happening. They were easy to identify, in blue and black vests, armed with large, electric guns. Not the type to kill, just incapacitate. It took their leader several tries to unlock the door to Spider-Man’s cell — and when it opened, the slightly yellowish gas billowed out, harmless as it dissipated in the ventilated corridor.

I pressed my hands against the glass, wanting to see inside. But there were so many guards, all piled in, that I didn’t have a good view. The way they were moving, though, made it clear that something was wrong. “What is it?” one of them asked.

“I dunno,” another said, and one shifted just enough for me to see inside, and spot the mound of webbing on the floor. “Maybe he cocooned or something…?”

“He’s not a butterfly, you idiots,” I muttered, just as one of them started prodding it with their foot.

_Whoosh!_

Suddenly, a pipe exploded, bursting the yellowish knock-out gas right into the guards’ faces. The corridor was suddenly filled with it, and I could only see flailing, falling forms as one by one the guards went unconscious. As the gas started to filter out again, Spider-Man leapt out of his cell, sticking to the ceiling, and webbed up several more cameras.

“That was very MacGuyver-y of you,” I remarked, as he dropped down and stole the key-card from one of the guards. Spider-Man looked mighty proud as he unlocked my door.

“Why, thank you,” I could hear him smiling as he puffed up his chest. “I do try my best —”

“Let’s just leave, all right?” I said, patting him on the shoulder, before Spider-Man could go on a tangent. “I want to make it in time to see Midtown’s play.”

“Wait, that’s tonight?”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” I said, turning to scowl at him, and was about to add to that comment when I saw more guards appearing over his shoulder. “Look out!”

I shoved Spider-Man against the wall, throwing myself out of the way just in time to avoid several stunning bolts. Spider-Man, thankfully, reacted quickly, aiming his wrists at the incoming guards, and managing to shoot several webs over their guns, and the rest along other’s faces. While the guns malfunctioned and the rest freaked out over the seemingly-permanent webbing, we turned and booked it outta there.

“There is no way we’re making it to the play if this is what we’re dealing with tonight!” Spider-Man managed to add, jumping between walls as we darted through tall corridors, and ended up in a different part of the building. Behind us, the doors slammed shut, big metal bars coming down and blocking the entrance to what was the Vault, and forcing us to enter what was now Ryker’s prison. The fact that we were still on the island was less of a problem than the fact of who we were stuck with.

I actually felt kind of bad for missing the play, after promising Harry I’d show. The guy had been through a lot, and now I felt bad for having to disappoint him again. I should’ve never let Peter talk me into this.

Of course, now I had bigger problems.

One of them being that we were now in a cell block in which all of the bad guys and supervillains of Yonder Year were now being kept.

“ _What the hell was that?”_ someone shouted far down the cavernous space. Maybe Sandman?

“ _Hey, it’s Spider-Man!”_

“ _And look, he brought his little friend!_ ”

“ _Well, I’ll be!_ ”

Beside me, Spider-Man’s shoulders tensed, his humor only marred by the added seriousness of the situation. “Well, they don’t look very happy to see us.”

“ _I guess it’s time, boys!_ ”

“Time?” we glanced at each other, confused. “Time for what?”

I wasn’t quite sure what I was seeing when I watched as, one by one, each cell door unlatched itself, sliding open and allowing its occupants free access. Sandman, Doctor Octopus, the Vulture, Electro, that rodeo clown whose name I couldn’t remember — _all of them —_ were just strolling out, somehow having had their abilities and gadgets weaponized, and now eyeing us like were dinner.

And they had just been set free.


	34. Ex Dolo Malo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so done with this chapter I swear
> 
> I wrote/uploaded chapters 32-39 in two days. Kill me.

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

**Ex Dolo Malo**

* * *

 

 

“You still think this was a good idea?” I shouted, currently in the middle of fighting both Montana and Richochet, who was being _impossible_ to catch.

Spider-Man, who was being wrangled by Doctor Octopus and drowning in sand at the same time, called back, “Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate!”

“Easy now, girly,” Montana said, raising his fists at me. I still had no idea how any of these guys got their stuff back, or how they all managed to break out at exactly the same time we were, but I sure wasn’t appreciating the coincidence. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?”

“Oh, please,” I grimaced, throwing a broken bench at him. The cell block had been utterly destroyed in what had only been minutes, but felt like an eternity. “I can’t even remember your name!”

The only reason we were all still in here was because of Ryker’s security system, the doors having barricaded themselves and some guards providing (mostly unhelpful) cover fire. So far, they only managed to take down the non-powered inmates.   
  
“What?” Montana spluttered as I tried to land a punch on Ricochet, only for him to bounce away like a rabbit on caffeine. “The name is _Shocker!_ ”  
  
“Shocker?” I asked, knowing full well who he was, and just enjoying the utter look of nuisance on the cowboy’s face. I flew after Ricochet, trying to find space to maneuver in this tight space, while Montana followed me with a shockwave. “Doesn’t Electro have the whole ‘shocking’ shtick down already?”

“I will not tolerate disrespect, missy!” Montana shouted, aiming his next barrage of shockwaves at me.

Luckily, I had learned from the last time we fought and managed to avoid it just in time to tackle Ricochet — and then use him as a shield when the shockwave finally hit.

It knocked the both of us back, crashing through metal, head over heels, and I lost my grip on Ricochet. I hit my head and for a moment the world went dark.   
  
When I came to, my shoulder was bruised and every bone in my back cracked as I stood up. Shaking my head, I found myself standing in another hallway, outside of the cell block — and to find my way back barred by another metal wall.

“No!” I ran over, slamming my fist against the metal. Through the small portholes I could see Spider-Man continuing the fight on his own. “Damn it!”

I couldn’t risk opening the door and allowing more criminals to escape. Frustrated, I turned away, deciding to find my own way out, maybe reconnect with Spider-Man some other way.

Ricochet had just gained consciousness as I walked over. His helmet had been knocked off by the blast, and there was a manic grin on his face as he looked around. “Hey, I’m free — oof!”

“Not today,” I muttered, knocking him across the head and casting him back into oblivion once more. I almost wanted to leave him there, to get on with my mission, but figured that he’d probably wake up soon, and I wasn’t going to let even one guy get out if I could help it.

So I had to drag his useless body over to nearby closet and stuff him inside, using a combination of extra wiring and some hasty knot-making to tie him up and keep him from getting lose while I was gone. After disabling the battery pack on his suit, I closed the door on Ricochet, locking him inside.

Clapping my hands together, I started making my way down the hall.

“ _Orange suits you, Falcon_.”

“Ross?” I whipped my head back up, alarmed. What the hell was he doing here? Did he follow me back from Detroit? I glared at the speakers as if I could send mental daggers to the man himself. “What happened to Captain Stacy? Norman Osborn?”

“Norman had other business to attend to. As for Stacy? He’s a little preoccupied at the moment.” Ross said, his tone far too light. “There was an incident down at City Hall, and he’s doing his job. Not wasting his time with you.”

“Why? What happened at City Hall?” my stomach dropped. It had to be pretty bad if Stacy had to deal with it in person. “Is the city in danger?”  
  
“That’s no longer your concern,” Ross replied. Suddenly, all around me I heard machinery clanking. Then the door to my left slammed shut, a thick sheet of metal coming down and blocking the exit. “I’m afraid you’ll be staying in the Vault for the foreseeable future.”

I just barely managed to throw myself through the next door before the metal barrier came slamming down. My heart was pounding as I looked left and right, desperate to find a way out. I couldn’t stop, though, I had to keep running, to just stay ahead and not get caught in the halls. If Ross wanted to keep me in here, then this was about to get a lot harder.

I cursed under my breath as I continued sprinting down the hall, outrunning each door as it passed by, each coming down like dominoes. This was definitely not what I planned to be doing on my return to being Falcon. What a great start.

Then I saw a doorway to a maintenance room on my right, not yet barred. Galvanized, I changed direction on a dime, slamming my shoulder into the door. The metal dented under the force, but it didn’t give until I flicked my hand and unlocked it first. The hinges gave immediately, and I stumbled, catching myself on the railing of the stairs. I had turned my head just as the door behind me slammed shut, another metal barrier coming down.

“I lost visual!” I heard Ross say, although he sounded far away, like he were shouting at someone in the room with him while the mic was still on. “Someone get in there and find her!”

“You probably should’ve installed cameras, Ross,” I said, then frowned when I didn’t get a response. Maybe this part was even less equipped then I thought — Ross couldn’t hear anything I said.

Excellent.

As I looked up into the large dark room, Ross’s presence reminded me the very obvious fact that I lied to the Doc about what happened. That he was, what, the monster? Something that I couldn’t see in that humble, almost non-descript man who also occasionally saved lives at the local hospital. He took me in when I had no place else to go, he gave me food, and he asked surprisingly fewer questions than I imagined. How was that a monster?

I didn’t know if Ross was just trying to play tricks on me. Did he know that I knew Bruce Banner? It seemed so unlikely, yet here I was, in that specific situation. What could the Doc have done to earn him such a title? Did he just run away from something he didn’t like, or did something more sinister happened?

Whatever it was, I couldn’t focus on it right now. Climbing onto the railing, I unfurled my wings. First, I had to get out of this hellhole and see what was going on outside. Something had happened, something bad, possibly because me and Spider-Man were very clearly stuck in here. If Jameson had anything to do about it, then the whole world would know we were in here.

I decided I would deal with the whole ‘monster’ idea later, when I had more information, when I knew more about the Doc as a person. If I was closed off, then he was even more so, and for my own sake I couldn’t pry just yet.

Taking off, I shot up into the massive room, rounding about the large machinery and hydraulics system that acted as the main function for Ryker’s security. The Vault was already deep underground, an added defense mechanism to make it harder for inmate to escape. I imagined those in Ryker’s who had a bad enough record would be sent down into the Vault once it was done testing.

Then I saw a flash of red and blue out of the corner of my eye, and flared my wings, dropping back down. “Spidey!”

“Birdbrain! You got out!” Spider-Man called back when I came back around, grabbing hold of the catwalk’s railing to catch myself, only for the metal to bend under my grip. It started to break, until he reached out and caught my hand, pulling me to the landing. “I knew you could do it!”

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, then did a double take when I realized we weren’t alone. I recognized the white hair and domino mask instantly. “…Is that Black Cat? Are you breaking her out?”

“What? No!”

“Actually, I’m breaking in,” Black Cat purred, giving me a slightly dissatisfied smirk. She prodded Spider-Man’s shoulder, “Aw, sugar, you should’ve told me we weren’t going to be alone.”

“Wow, ew,” I held up my hands, shaking my head, while Spider-Man ducked away, embarrassed. I hadn’t been away for five minutes and already he was in cahoots with a known criminal. I should not be surprised. “I didn’t need to hear that. _Anyways_ , what the hell are you guys doing?”

“There’s been a, er, jailbreak.” Spider-Man said, just as the door behind him opened and out came a middle-aged man in an orange jumpsuit.

“Okay, that should hold them off for a while,” the man was saying as he turned around. He wiped his hands on his chest, but froze when he saw me. “Oh, no, not another hero.”

I appraised the man, who didn’t exactly look like the type of ‘dangerous criminal’ I expected to find in here. “Uh, who’re you?”

The man opened his mouth, but Spider-Man held up a hand, pushing the man back. “He’s no one. Let’s go.”

I was startled by the tone of Spider-Man’s voice, his brusqueness as he suddenly turned away and leapt up the stairs. The sudden change in demeanor alone had me pausing a bit; but also the fact that I had never seen him act this way, in or outside of the mask. Something must be bothering him.

Something bad.

Throwing one last glance behind me at the two criminals, I went after Spider-Man, catching up with him. Making sure we were far enough away, I bowed my head and whispered, “Peter, what’s going on? Who is he?”

“He’s Black Cat’s dad. Walter, I guess his name is.” he responded, tone still carefully neutral, yet strained. I could see his hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Another red flag. “A burglar. A murderer.”

“Murderer?” My mind went back, trying to think of some important political figure who might’ve been offed, or some other public murder that got a lot of news attention, but I came up with a blank. “Who did he kill?”

“You know who.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, speechless. What was Peter saying? I mean, there weren’t a lot of options when it came to important people between us. It could only be the one… did Peter — was he talking about Uncle Ben?

I had stopped in my shock, but Spider-Man had kept walking, shoulders hunched. With the two criminals catching up, I surged forward, grabbing him by the arm, pulling Spider-Man to a halt. “Wait, stop! You mean — you mean Uncle Ben? That man, he’s the one — he’s the one who-who _shot —_ ”

“Yeah.”

I just stared at him. I wished I could see Peter’s face. I wanted him to see mine, for him to know we weren’t alone in this. The shock, the pain. I wanted him to know I understood.

But I also wanted to know: “And you’re helping him escape? After what he did?”

He threw up his arms, pushing me away. “Of course not! He doesn’t deserve that! But he’s the only one who knows the Vault the best, a-and he’s willing to help us stop the-the other ones trying to escape. The Sinister Six. They’ve got their-their stuff back and I am _not_ up for another fight with them —”

“Okay, no, I get it, that’s fine,” I waved my hands, deciding not to push the matter. “But are _you_ okay?”

“Do I _look_ okay?” he demanded, and didn’t give me a chance to answer, just turning on his heel and opening the door behind him, disappearing inside. “Let’s just get this over with.”

I bit my lip and followed him, glancing over my shoulder at Black Cat and the older man, Walter. They returned my look with suspicion and nervousness, respectively. For a murderer, Walter certainly appeared…underwhelming. Almost fatherly.

I decided the best thing for Peter right now was to stay focused. Calling after him, I asked, “So, what’s the plan, then?”

“We have to stop the other prisoners from escaping,” Spider-Man said, and although his voice was still tense, his anger seemed to be abating a little. Or maybe he was just suppressing it for a later point. I couldn’t be sure. “I don’t know how, but the Sinister Six managed to get their old equipment sent back to themselves, must’ve been planning this for a while. If we didn’t show up, I doubt Ryker’s would’ve been able to stop them.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered under my breath, just as I heard loud clanking reverberate through the building walls. I pointed up, “Uh, is that them?”

“Probably,” Black Cat answered as Spider-Man tilted his head to reply. She strode past us, her white hair swishing back and forth. She appeared to be older than us, but I got the feeling she was younger than she looked. “The point is, all four of us get out of here, and make sure the rest of those goons stay inside.”

“I’m not letting a murderer escape,” Spider-Man said, his voice hard. I honestly thought he’d yell, so I was surprised by how quiet his voice was.

At the same time, Walter said, “Felicity, sweetheart, it’s fine, I’m not —”

“No.” Black Cat held up her hands, setting her jaw and glaring at the three of us. She pointed at her father, “I broke in here to get you out, Daddy. I’m not leaving until I do. I don’t care who I have to fight on the way to make that happen.”

Spider-Man threw his hands at Walter. “He’s in here for a reason, can’t you see that —”

“That goes for you, too, Webhead,” Black Cat snarled, so fiercely that Spider-Man leaned back a little. “If you so much as lay a sticky finger on my father, I swear, I’ll —”

“Okay, enough!” I snapped, throwing out my hands and unwittingly sending a blast of cold air around us. It nearly knocked the others off their feet, throwing up hair and clothes, and was enough to silence them long enough for me to talk. “I get it, you guys got issues and some conflicting motivations, _but!_ ” I threw a glare at Spider-Man in particular. “We have a bigger problem. Let’s focus on stopping the Sinister Six, _then_ we can deal with Mr. Walter over here, okay? I’m sure we’ll all be in a better mood to think when we aren’t being hounded by a bunch of angry supervillains out for revenge.”

“Depending on how this night goes,” Black Cat sniffed, turning on her heel and stalking away. “They might not be the only ones.”

Then she broke into a run, suddenly sprinting down the halls. The rest of us exchanged looks of surprise before going after her.

Black Cat must have been really ticked, because she didn’t slow down even after we asked. It wasn’t until Walter mentioned something about his heart did she finally glance back and come to a stop, taking a second to check on him while Spider-Man and I darted forward.

I threw a hand back, looking to Spider-Man. “Shouldn’t we —”

“No,” he said, not even looking at me. “We keep going. That’s the plan, right?”

“Right, but—” I paused to suck in breath “— I should probably mention—” I panted, skidding around the corner just as Spider-Man came to a stop. I barely avoided crashing into him, before seeing what blocked our path.

A dozen armed soldiers in black gear, visors, and guns, aimed at us.

Black Cat and her father appeared a second after me, gasping in surprise. I managed to finish, “— General Ross is here.”

“Ross?” Spider-Man hissed, taking a half-step back with his hands up. “You mean that guy from Detroit you met? I haven’t heard about him since you told me two weeks ago.”

“You mean your bird friend here’s got beef with a U.S. general?” Black Cat demanded, and I couldn’t tell if she sounded more irritated or impressed. “This day just keeps getting more interested, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, funny.” I muttered, as the speakers over our heads crackled to life.

“ _This is your last chance, Falcon_ ,” Ross warned, and the soldiers in front of us shifted in unison. The four of us pressed closer together, silently agreeing that this was a very bad situation. “ _Surrender now, and I’ll spare you and your friends.”_

“Peter,” I said under my breath, and he tilted his head towards me. “On the count of three, I want you guys to run.”

“What?” He hissed. “Are you nuts?”

Ross kept talking over us, completely oblivious. “ _Maybe you’ll even get a hearing, although after all the crimes you’ve committed against this country, I don’t have high hopes for that —”_

“Just trust me!” I snapped, raising my hands, as if in surrender. The other three did the same, although now they were tensed. Black Cat was slowly backing up, pushing her father behind her. “Go back the way you came, close the Vault. I’ll handle this.”

“Falcon, I’m not —” Spider-Man started to protest.

I wasn’t listening anymore. Turning my gaze towards the soldiers, I started flexing my fingers. “Three —”

“— Wait, stop —” Spider-Man grabbed my shoulder.

“— What’s going on? What’s she doing?” Black Cat demanded.

“— Two —”  
  
“Crap! Fine!” Spider-Man finally let me go, stumbling back. To Black Cat and her father, he said, “We gotta go!”

“ _Falcon, if you so much as twitch—_ ” Ross snarled, alarmed by the sight of the other three suddenly retreating. “ _— I order you to stand down or —”_

“One!” I cried, just as the three disappeared around the corner. At the same time, I threw down my arms, sweeping them out as I dropped to a crouch.

“ _Fire!”_ Ross bellowed.

_FWOOM!_

Just as the soldiers were about to pull their triggers, a massive wind came barreling through the corridor — I dropped to a crouch to avoid the brunt of it hitting my back. I raised my head just in time to see all soldiers get knocked back, caught completely off guard as my telekinesis sent them flying.

Guns and helmets were scattered as the soldiers landed haphazardly across the corridor. Before any of them could retrieve their weapons, I raised my hands again, drawing up the weapons into the air. I clapped my hands together, and metal crunched as the guns were mashed into an incomprehensible ball of bent and twisted metal.

I let it fall with a loud _crunch_. Returning to my feet, I launched myself forward, leaping over the bodies and making headway for the end of the corridor. There was a wide window at the end, showing a dark sky, and all I could think of was how easy it would be to fly out of here.

My plans of escape were abruptly cut short when a hand wrapped around my hand, and I fell, landing hard on my chest. “Oof!”

“ _If you think I’m letting you out of here alive, Falcon_ ,” Ross said over the speakers as the soldier continued to drag me back. I rolled around, kicked at his head until he let go, and just barely managed to dodge the strike from another soldier who had also gotten up. “ _You’re a menace to society. You cause rampant destruction wherever you go. You can’t control your emotions, and people, innocent people, get hurt. Is that what you call a superhero?_ ”

“That hasn’t happened in months!” I shouted back, getting back to my feet and swiping a kick at the second soldier, sending him flying back into a wall. “I’ve changed, I’ve learned, I know better —”

“ _Know better_?” came Ross’s snort, just as a blow to my back sent me to my knees. My radar was alive with activity as all around me the soldiers got back to their feet, surrounded me. The next blow came from a stun baton that had me seizing and on the ground, while he continued, “ _Do you have any idea what you really are? Do you have any idea of the true threat you pose? Can you really claim that all the lives you’ve supposedly saved are worth the price of chaos you’ve sown?”_

I grit my teeth against the pain, clenching my fists and unfurling my wings around me as protection. “That’s rich, coming from a warmonger like you! _You’re_ the one who plowed tanks straight through Harlem! If it weren’t for you, the Abomination would’ve never existed!”

Swinging my arms wide, I knocked several men off their feet, before spinning around and knocking more back. With my telekinesis, I brought up my hands, then threw them down — a cascade of ceiling tile crashed down on the heads of three soldiers, downing them for good.

“ _You fail to see the bigger picture_ ,” Ross said, as I turned on my heel. “ _Destruction is negligible when it’s for a greater cause — one you don’t happen to work for, Falcon. You’re just a vigilante, a wild card, that no one can trust, and no one_ should _trust.”_

“Or maybe you just don’t know responsibility. At least I don’t blame my actions on someone else!” I brought up my arms to protect myself as I forced my mind against the glass ahead of me.

It shattered instantly, and cold March air blew in, a refreshing taste after the stale air of the prison.

Ross managed one last call before I dove out the window. “ _I’ll find you, Falcon. You can’t escape from me!_ ”

“We’ll see about that,” I muttered, as my wings caught a draft and I soared upwards.

The taste of freedom was sweet, if that wasn’t too much of cliché for me to say. I angled my wings, relishing the wind and the sky and the distance from the ground. I circled around Ryker’s spotting Spider-Man on the roof. He was with Black Cat, but there was someone noticeably missing. Walter wasn’t with them, and Black Cat seemed pissed.

She had just jumped away when I landed. “What’s wrong? Where did Walter go?”

Spider-Man huffed, crossing his arms and turning to scowl at the cityscape. “He stayed behind. Sacrificed himself to stop the Sinister Six from escaping.”

“Oh.” I felt a little awkward bringing it up now, but with no one chasing after us anymore, and with the wide open air before us, it felt all right now. After a second, I asked, “…And?”

“And what?”

“Do you still hate him?”

“I…” Peter sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know. He…he said he never wanted to kill anyone. He was just a cat burglar, never carried a gun with him before, he was getting old, he only wanted to protect himself. When I caught him, he just gave up. Because he wanted to. Because he felt guilty.”

“Which he should.” I reminded him.

“Yeah, I know, I just —” Peter clenched his fists, then let them go. “I wish it was…simpler. That it wasn’t just…I don’t know.”

“Just an accident?” I said. “You wanted it to mean something?”

“I guess?” Spider-Man threw out his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. I just didn’t expect him to be so…kind, or normal, I guess. I didn’t think he’d have kids, too. It would’ve made it easier to hurt him.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

I gave a tentative smile at that, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I think that’s good. And coming from me, Queen of Bad Decisions, that’s saying a lot.”

Spider-Man actually laughed at that, even if was tired, a little half-hearted. “Yeah, I guess so. This whole night kind of just sucked, didn’t it?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. You’re not so good at making decisions, either.”

“Wow, thanks —”

But Spider-Man’s sarcastic reply was cut short by a cackle, and something bright orange sailing out of the darkness and landing out of our feet.

I just barely recognized the pumpkin shape, the smoke, before Spider-Man shoved me out of the way. “Bomb! Get down!”

But he wasn’t fast enough. With a shriek, the pumpkin exploded, the sharp blast catching us and sending us into the wall of Ryker’s. My back hit brick wall and I felt a twinge in my shoulder as the old wound took the brunt of the force. I landed back on the roof with a groan, grimacing as I tried to pick myself up.

I heard Spider-Man whisper beside me. “No way…”

“ _Ah, Spider-Man!_ ” came that all-too-familiar laugh. I looked up, staring in horror as the spiked hoverboard came swooping down from the black sky, like a demon out of the night. Aboard it stood the one person I didn’t think I’d ever see again. “ _What a lovely night this is!”_

The Green Goblin.


	35. Idus Martiae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters, guys! Woo!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**Idus Martiae**

* * *

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                

The Mayor had been kidnapped.

I wouldn’t learn this until the next day at school; it was the only think people could talk about.

The only think _I_ could think about was the fact that Green Goblin showed up last night, nearly killing me and Peter had Black Cat not returned at the last second to save our lives. Who woulda thunk?

I was surprised to learn that Goblin hadn’t taken responsibility for the kidnapping; in fact, a TV interview with Captain Stacy said that it was the White Rose who took her, out of some desire to barter the city. No knew where she went, or how to hunt them down. Contacts with the White Rose were shaky to say the least; the FBI had gotten involved since, but had yet to make any headway.

Everyone had seen the ransom video. It was on the news, online, everywhere. All it showed was a dark portrait of Mayor Waters, duct-taped to a chair in some dark room, her hair awry, her suit wrinkled, hose ripped, and a disembodied voice speaking and she struggled weakly against her bindings.

The voice demanded the city for her life. I didn’t know how you could just… _hand over_ a city like that, but clearly someone had to do something, or the Mayor was going to die. They didn’t give a time limit, strangely, but the threat was there nonetheless.

It was all very worrisome, to say the least.

I couldn’t concentrate in class. Neither could Peter, if our hushed conversations over our worksheets meant anything. We both noticed that Harry hadn’t been to school today. He also failed to show up at the play last night, and Hoby Brown had to take his place as Puck in the show. Hobie was pretty proud of his effort, which had gotten standing ovation…but Peter and I were worried about what it all really meant.

If Harry hadn’t been at the play last night, where was he?

The answer was obvious.

I was too afraid to even bring up the thought, even though I knew Peter was thinking the same thing.

Things did not get better when Gwen pulled me aside before lunch. “Amy, can we talk for a second?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I had to make myself focus on her face, to remember that my problems weren’t everyone’s problems. Gwen looked seriously bothered, and I could only imagine what she wanted to talk about.

“It’s Harry,” she said.

Well, I could’ve guessed that. Still, I couldn’t help but lean in a little, earnest. “You’ve seen him? Is he okay?”

“He’s…” Gwen looked away, biting her lip, then glanced back at me. She looked almost ashamed. “I’ve been hiding him at my house. He was…he felt sick last night and came over. He’s scared, Amy. And he wants to talk to us. All of us. Peter, you, me. Together. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I frowned. I had no real plans, and I was sure the Doc wouldn’t mind if I hung out at Gwen’s on a supposed ‘study date’. At least this time it would be more truthful than usual. “I-I guess. What happened last night? Why is he sick?”

“It’s… a long story,” Gwen winced, and I had a feeling she knew more than I did, but didn’t want to tell me. She put her hands on my shoulders, squeezing. “Please tell me you’ll come. It’ll mean the world for Harry. We’re…we’re all he has left right now.”

“I…” I didn’t even know why I was hesitating. Was it because I knew it about the Goblin? Did Harry realize what was going on, finally? “Of course, Gwen. Of course I will. I’ll be there. I promise.”

A smile of relief broke across her face, and Gwen enveloped me in a tight hug. Had I not known better, I might’ve thought she had super strength. “Thanks, Amy. I really need this right now. With you guys there, it’s all going to work out. I just know it.”

I should’ve known better than to make promises I couldn’t keep.

I had decided to walk home today; a longer trip meant I had more time to think to myself, and the rhythmic thumps of my footsteps gave me reassurance. Did Harry remember what happened last night when he was the Goblin? Did he remember almost killing me and Peter? Well, Falcon and Spider-Man, but still. What were we going to do? What was _Peter_ going to do?

I was afraid a fight might break out. That Harry might just change in front of us, switch personalities. What if he didn’t need the Globulin Green anymore to become the Goblin?

The thought sent shivers down my back and I pushed it aside, calling it ridiculous. I was overthinking, as I always did when I was left alone too long with my thoughts. It wasn’t going to be that bad. Harry was going to get help — real, honest to goodness help. His traveling last time did some good. It took him longer to relapse. Maybe now, he could be…he could be _fixed_ for good.

_BOOM!_

The ground shook beneath me, and I stumbled, catching the wall of a nearby building to steady myself. Looking up, I saw a plume of smoke rising behind the apartment buildings in front of me. Oh, god, was that Hell’s Kitchen?

_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

Right before my eyes, three more clouds of smoke rose into the air, red sparks catching in the afternoon light. I just stared, in horror, completely distracted when something showed up on my radar.

“ _Hey, there, little girl_ …” I heard the hissing voice.

In my panic, I instinctively whipped around, grabbing the hand with its shiny blade, and wrenched it down. At the same time, I swung my other fist, striking the mugger across the jaw and sending him flying back.

Unfortunately, I didn’t expect his back-up.

Something grabbed my hair, ripped my head back, and I cried out as I was thrown off my feet. Whoever had me must’ve been strong, huge, because with only a small grunt he managed to heave me into the brick wall of a nearby alley.

I just barely managed to bring up my arms to protect my face before I collided with the very hard, very solid surface of brick, the skin of my palms raking against the rough surface.

As I hit the ground, I heard the second mugger cry out behind me, followed by two sharp _wacks!_ And the sound of a heavy body hitting the ground.

It took me a second to shake my head and look up. I recognized the red suit and batons instantly. “Daredevil! I-I can’t — Are you following me again?”

He turned slowly, hardly out of breath, although I was pretty sure he just jumped down from the rooftops or something. For a guy who was pretty much as close to human a superhero could get, he was pretty tough. I had no idea how he did it.

“Not on purpose. I was following those,” He gestured with a baton towards the four plumes of smoke in the distance. Even as we looked, two more appeared, and he grimaced, muttering, “Oh, great.”

Before I could say anything, Daredevil turned to me, a frown on his face. “Are you all right?”

I was a little stunned. “You have to ask?”

“He _did_ just throw you into a wall.”

“I took a knife in the back once. I’m fine. What’re _you_ doing?”

“Right, I forgot.” Daredevil gave a short nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s the White Rose attacking. All over Hell’s Kitchen, and beyond. Brooklyn’s flooding, Harlem’s got power outages, traffic on the bridges as stopped completely. I’ve been after them for weeks, I was going to stop them…but they were always a step ahead. Kidnapping the Mayor, setting fires, all these things, keeping me distracted. Emergency systems are scattered, unprepared. Now they’re planning something, and I don’t know if I can stop them —”

He stopped seconds away from admitting defeat, and frowned. A silence fell between us as I took this in. What was I supposed to say?

That’s when he tilted his chin up and asked, “I could really use your help.”

“You — what?” I definitely wasn’t expecting _that_. Daredevil, asking for help? “Didn’t you specifically tell me not to go after the Rose?”

“That was before,” he said, pointing a finger at the ground as he faced me. “This is now. I need you to find Mayor Waters, while I track down Fisk. I don’t imagine they’re in the same place at the same time, but I know he’s watching her someone.”

“But — my friends —” all I could think about was Gwen’s whispering voice, her begging eyes, agreeing to meet her and Harry and Peter at her house. The sun was already setting. I was going to be late.

“Please.” Daredevil said. “I wouldn’t be asking this unless I had no other choice. I don’t want you in this fight…but you’re the only other person I know who can.”

I sighed, closing my eyes and biting my lip. I knew whatever Harry wanted to tell us was important — more than likely it had to do with the Goblin, who was also a major problem — but I couldn’t just say no to Daredevil. No after everything’s that’s happened. I trusted him, and for some bizarre reason he trusted me. I couldn’t give that up, not after everything that’s happened.

Clenching my hands, I opened my eyes and gave a short nod. “Fine. I’ll help. But only because you asked.”

He gave me the ghost of a smile. “I don’t expect anything more.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _The White Rose might be working with the Green Goblin. I’ve been finding Pumpkinheads guarding Rose outposts, so I think it’s a fair gamble_ …

I could hear Daredevil’s voice playing over in my head as I flew over New York City, scanning the streets and rooftops as I searched for any sign of where Mayor Waters might be kept hidden.

… _The White Rose have been bringing in their shipments by boat now; easier to hide, and probably harder for you to break into, after you’re little rampage — okay, sorry, didn’t mean it like that. But you know. Check the docks. Look for large ships, well-guarded. They’d need something to defend from both police_ and _superheroes_ _…_

New York had a lot of docks, to say the least, and I wasn’t in the mood to go look through hundreds of shipping manifests to see which ones looked fishy (pun not intended).

Most of them were fishing boats, others were freighters packed with giant metal containers. I was leaning towards the latter, mostly because of all the places you could hide a person, hide yourself, really, without the FBI catching on.

As it turned out, the ship I was looking for wasn’t too hard to find.

It was in the middle of the river, leaving the city. I noticed the bright orange dots first, thinking they were, like, construction cones or something. But drifting closer, I realized they were _people_.

Pumpkinheads, to be exact.

They saw me almost as soon as I saw them. Shouting erupted on the ship as they all started pointing at me and aiming their various weapons: guns, rocket launchers, the occasional pumpkin bomb — all directed at me as I swooped down, wind whistling between my feathers.

Like hawk coming down to grab its prey, I kicked out my legs as I came closer towards deck, knocking a Pumpkinhead into the water. The Goblin had surprisingly considerate work code, because they all appeared to be wearing life vests, so I didn’t feel too bad about launching them into the water. If they couldn’t swim, then the Coast Guard could pick them up when I was done.

There had to be two dozen or more on the decks, and more spilled out even as I knocked two more over the railing. Good god, where did Goblin find all these weirdos? When did he get the chance to hire them all? Did he hand out business cards or something? Did he write an ad in the confidentials of the _Daily Bugle_?

I almost smiled just thinking about it, swiping a Pumpkinhead with my wing and throwing him into a comrade. _Looking for tall, thin men and women between the ages of 18-25; must be willing to use firearms; no experience required; desire to fight superheroes like Spidey and Birdgirl is welcome._

Landing on the deck, I threw out one hand, knocking back a Pumpkinhead girl and throwing another aside, loosening his gun and sending it over the end of the ship. More charged at me and I launched into the air again, using the wind from my wingbeats and force them back, blinding them and giving me enough time to gather enough strength and lift them — about eight at once, from their clothes and neck collars — and toss them overboard.

In one collective scream, they all landed into the waves below. The others scattered, terrified, several bailing ship themselves instead of facing me. Clearly, Goblin wasn’t looking for the qualities of bravery or loyalty in his lackies.

One last Pumpkinhead thought he could one-up me by charging from behind, but my radar picked up on him. Just as he was about to bring down the 2x4 on my head, I spun around, slamming a roundhouse kick into his chest and sending the man wailing into the water.

With a huff, I straightened and clenched my fists. Well, that’s over with.

As I scanned the rest of the deck for any stragglers, it occurred to me how surprisingly easy this was. You’d think if you were keeping someone as important as the Mayor on board, you set up some guards who were more capable of defending against superheroes. Or someone who could shoot guns better.

After confirming that there was no one left on deck, I eventually made my way towards the back of the ship, I found a massive hole in the metal, a crane nearby. This must be how they unloaded the crates from inside. As I peered in, I didn’t see any cargo — just darkness. My radar picked up on other objects inside, but nothing large enough to be worth the size of shipping freighter.

Dropping down, my landing echoed in the cavernous space. Looking around, I saw that the hull was almost completely empty and devoid of light. Its metals walls were red with rust, and I could pick out the lines of wire that connected the various pieces of C4 planted on the ship. This must be the back-up Goblin or the Rose wanted to make sure no one got away before the deal came through.

Well, it made up for my disappointment with the Pumpkinheads. Careful not to trip on any of them, I made my way to the center of the gigantic room.

In the center, a grate from the ceiling filtered sunlight down onto the occupied chair beneath. In front of the chair was a digital camera with its screen out, still recording. I raced over, knocking over the camera in my haste to reach the Mayor duct-taped to the chair.

“Mm-mmf!” Mayor Waters, gagged, had looked up when I dropped down on the other end of the ship. She looked even worse in real life than on camera - the screen couldn’t capture just how aged the woman looked, her gray hair having lost all its shine and shape, now a dull gray color that only accentuated the lines on her face, the shadows under her eyes. She struggled weakly in her bindings, bare feet kicking uselessly against the floor.

“It’s all right,” I said, raising my hands up to show I meant no harm. I wasn’t particularly clear on the Mayor’s opinion of superheroes, but I hoped that the Mayor didn’t react badly. The voice scrambler probably didn’t help, but I couldn’t afford to turn it off at the moment. “I’m here to help.”

“Mmmf!” was all the Mayor could say.

“Hold on, this might hurt a bit,” I said, raising her hands. In one swift motion, I brought up my arms, and all the duct tape came apart at once with a loud _RIIIIIP!_

“Ah!” Mayor Waters cried as her mouth was released. She brought up her equally free hands and rubbed her sore skin, wincing. “I guess superheroes don’t practice bedside manners.”

“Sorry,” I just shrugged. Her suit was dirty and Waters tried swiping away the dust and grime, but it was only a half-hearted attempt. The woman looked like hell. “Look, we have to get out of here, and fast.”

I turned to look around as the Mayor got up to stretch aching legs. I hoped the Mayor could get a hold of herself quickly, because I was not ready to start carrying dead weight around, especially if we were going to get attacked again. “The ship is going to blow in less than hour and the faster we le—”

I was interrupted by a hand that fell on my shoulder, detected by a prick on my radar. I glanced over at Mayor Waters, who simply said, “Thank you.”

Then she plunged a needle into my neck.

I didn’t even have time to throw her off before Water’s thumb had pushed all of syringe’s liquid into my veins. A strangled gasp left my lips at the sudden spurt of pain and I twisted around, grabbing the offending arm and twisting it — but her strength failed before she could cause injury.

Suddenly, my knees buckled underneath her and I lost my grip on the Mayor, fingers already numb. By the time I hit the floor, I couldn’t feel my body.

Even though I had stopped moving, the world still swayed. My vision blurred with every flick of eye movement and my breathing became very loud in my ears.

What’s going on? Even my thoughts were slowing down. My radar faded away. What’s happening to me? I can’t move!

I barely managed to croak out, “What...did....you...do?”

“I’m sorry, Falcon,” Mayor Waters said, but all I could see was her bare feet. To look up at the woman, I would have to turn my head, but I didn’t have the strength for it.

Water’s voice echoed and slurred, and it took me several seconds to even understand what was said even after I heard it. “They didn’t leave me a choice. I have to protect the people of this city, even if it means sacrificing one of its citizens to do so. As the saying goes, the needs of the many...”

“Outweigh the needs of the few,” I whispered, heat flaring inside of me despite my immobilized state. Who the hell did the Mayor think she was, using a goddamn _Star Trek_ line to justify herself!

Suddenly, the world started to shift and I was distantly aware of something pulling on my arm, lifting me up. Shoulders off the floor, my head lolled back, neck unable to support itself as I was hauled upright into a sitting position. It took me a few seconds to figure out that this was the spot that Mayor Waters had just been sitting in moments before.

“Then you understand, right?” Mayor Waters asked, panting slightly from the effort. I wasn’t that heavy, on my own, but my various equipment added some not inconsiderable weight. The woman returned to my line of sight, pacing anxiously before her. There was something in her hands, something black and shiny. “This is for the best. The best choice. I know...I know you would have made the same decision, had you been in my shoes. This sacrifice... it’ll save millions.”

“Not...” Breathing was so hard. It felt like there was an anvil on my chest. I squinted, still trying to make out what was in the Mayor’s hands. “...Your choice...to make...who has to... _sacrifice_...”

“If they came to you,” Mayor Waters paused to frown, turning to face me. She was tapping the black object in her hands. Oblong, such a weird shape. “Saying that you had two options: either kill yourself, or let everyone else suffer, what would you do? What would you choose? You may be careless, Falcon, but you’re not selfish. You’d do it. I know you would. That’s what heroes do.”

“But it’s not you,” I said, managing to sound a little more lucid, but it was a fleeting moment. My voice rasped, made worse by the grating sound as it was emitted from the voice scrambler. Each word scraped my throat raw. “It’s not...you they want...dead. It’s easy...when they’re asking...to kill someone else...doesn’t seem so bad...that way, does it?”

The woman’s brow furrowed. Her fingers ran over the smooth black metal surface – _gun, it was a gun_ – in her hands, considering my words, not liking them. I felt a small smile pull at my lips. I was right, and the Mayor knew it.

However, Waters just shook her head, running a hand through her messy gray hair. “No, no, it’s still hard. I’ve never – I’ve never had to _kill_ anyone before. I’m not like them. I just wanted you to know that. This isn’t personal.”

 _It never is_.

“Who’s...they?” I finally realized that Waters’ hadn’t identified her assailants yet.

“Don’t you know?” Waters threw me a surprised look. She hadn’t seen the ransom video, didn’t know it had been broadcasted live on all the media stations. Even Twitter. It was trending right now. “They’re the ones you’ve been fighting, trying to take down. Their drug is in your system. Rosebud, or a liquid form of it, the version that paralyzes. Did you know they had made different types, catered to their needs? God,” the woman laughed, a cold, mirthless laugh. “Had I known what they’d been up to before, I would’ve put more funding into the NYPD’s Organized Crime Unit. My secretary is an idiot.”

I was thrown off by this aside, my vision blurry and hearing fading out as I tried to figure out what I just heard. _What? Makes no sense...what were we talking about again_?

But I figured it out. “The Rose.”

“Yes,” Mayor Waters nodded with a tired sigh. “The Red Rose.”

“The...what?” No, that was wrong. I thought I heard wrong. Maybe the drugs were screwing up my hearing. Surely the Mayor must be confused, mistaken... “No...no, it’s the...the White Rose...They’re the ones...making...selling the drugs...”

“What? No,” the Mayor gave another short laugh, almost a bark. “No, no. They’ve got nothing to do with this, although I suppose they’re pretty confused as to why you’ve been cracking down on them for something they didn’t do.

“No, the Red Rose, they’re new,” Mayor Waters added. “They’ve got beef with the White Rose, at least as far as I can tell. I don’t know, I don’t really get involved with that kind of stuff. I’m the Mayor! I should be trying to get rid of them. But they’re too strong. I can’t stop them. I can only hold them off, appease them – maybe they’ll even return the favor, protect the city.”

I might be high as a kite, but even I had enough sense to know the idea was foolish. I even said, “That’s the stupidest thing...I’ve ever heard.”

“You may think so,” The Mayor retorted. “But there’s a war coming, I know it. The Red Rose are stronger, and I know they’re going to win. Hell, they managed to get me on this boat, lined with explosives, without a single cop finding out. When the shit hits the fan, I’m putting this city on the winning side. But you won’t be there to see it.”

“You’re going to shoot me,” it was a statement. Somehow, I wasn’t even afraid. Her body was too relaxed to release the required chemicals in my brain to feel fear, to fully comprehend what was going on right now.

“No one will ever know. Your body will never be found, not after this ship blows up,” the Mayor just shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to be warming herself up to the prospect, perhaps not happy with it, but settled to the idea that it will make things better. “And the police won’t even think to look for you, anyways. It’s what the Red Rose wanted, for you to be wiped off the map completely. Like you never even existed in the first place.”

I just sat there, limp and speechless. _What_ could I possibly say to _that_?

“I’m sorry, Falcon,” The Mayor fixed me with a pitying look, accurately guessing my reaction to be unmitigated horror. “I’m sure that you’re a perfectly good person, somewhere beneath that helmet. I wish...”

But the Mayor couldn’t finish the sentence, her mouth left hanging open in a moment of speechlessness. Then, silently, she raised her arm, brought the gun against the cool glass of my helmet.

There was a cold aching in my chest, and I realized with startling clarity that it was betrayal. Of willful abandonment. The feeling of being forsaken by someone I thought I could trust, even implicitly, someone who was voted for their integrity and honesty, chosen to protect the people...chosen to protect _Amy_ , a scared girl with no mother and a broken family who had little else to lose.

“Please,” I begged, my voice frail. I was shaking. I never thought I’d ever have to beg for my life, to the _Mayor_ of all people. “Please, don’t.”

I tried to say something about my mom, my cousin, my aunt, my friends – real people, the people I cared about. But all that came out was: “...my family.”

The Mayor’s eyes widened, glassy and bright. Then she closed her eyes, turned her head away.

And squeezed the trigger.


	36. Algor Mortis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope this influx of updates helps with the fact that it took me for freaking ever to update at all. I love all of you guys for even reading this far and putting up with me. I honestly wanted to give up, but now I'm just gonna charge through the rest of this tonight, so I can finally put this fic to bed. It's been long enough :)
> 
> Also, the horizontal lines are meant to be pauses in the narrative. I liked them better than the 'OoOoO' thing I used to do. Feels more professional.

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**Algor Mortis**

* * *

 

 

 _Click_.

I gasped, so sure that the last thing I’d ever see would be a flash of light, that when nothing happened, I couldn’t believe it. Was this a joke?

“What?” Mayor Waters looked around, equally surprised. Apparently, she didn’t expect this to happen either. The woman brought up the gun a few inches to examine it, just enough that it wasn’t aimed at my head anymore. “I-it didn’t work?”

A shudder coursed through my body as I started to hyperventilate. My eyes burned, not from the drugs, but from the tears suddenly streaming down my face. I couldn’t quite feel myself crying, but the warmth across my cheeks solidified this thought. I couldn’t believe it, how goddamn lucky I was. How extraordinarily _lucky_...

“Very good, Madam Mayor,” came a smooth voice from behind me. It echoed off the walls, like a demon at playtime. It was strangely familiar, yet I couldn’t place where I heard it last. “You can go now. There’s a yacht waiting for you outside.”

“Oh, thank God,” Mayor Waters dropped the gun like it was a hot coal and practically ran out of the room, making for the exit somewhere behind the chair. I wanted to look around, to see this new person, who had apparently been watching this entire time. My head was still lying on my shoulder, back slumped in the seat.

There came the clicking of a woman’s heels as the voyeur approached, coming around the chair so I could finally get a good look at her. Blinking heavily, I could make out a deep maroon pantsuit, so clean and sharp, along with the long black curls and manicured fingers of a prosperous business executive. The woman bent down, face turned away from me, as she went to pick up the discarded gun.

The red-suited woman clucked her tongue, cleaning a smudge off the side of the gun with a corner of her white blouse. “I hate it when people misuse my personal affects. This was a gift from my father, you know. He told me it was for protection, to safeguard our family. I got it on my eighteenth birthday, only three days before he was killed.”

She was too tall and too close for me to see her face from my frame of view. The woman turned on her heel and walked away a few steps, laughing lightly. She was withdrawing something from her pocket, small gold things. “I had six bullets, and I put each of them in the men who betrayed my father.”

“One.” she filled the chambers.

“By.” she snap the cylinder back.

“One.” _Chk-chk._ The gun cocked.

I just stared, almost in wonder at this utterly bizarre turn of events. My mind was too slow to catch up to what was going on. If the Mayor’s betrayal had me confused, then this was right out of left field.

“I don’t consider myself a violent woman,” the woman continued, as if this were a regular conversation held over tea and crumpets and not, say, one held over a gun. “But I _am_ a pragmatic one, and I don’t take kindly to threats. Maybe you’re wondering what just happened, why you’re not dead. Maybe you’re too high to even understand what’s going on right now, but from your conversation with the Mayor, I take it you’re lucid enough. I guess superhero metabolism has its perks.”

The big words were leaving me confused, but I managed to keep up in the end. Part of me wanted _so badly_ to drift, to sleep, to pretend this was some awful hallucination – like I got a dose of acid. Really _bad_ acid.

“Oh, I can’t tell you how much I want you dead right now,” The woman laughed, twirling the gun around her finger as she went back to face me. She just shook her head, long black hair swishing back and forth. “But I didn’t come this far just to off you in one go. I had to make sure all the pieces were in place. The Mayor, for instance – I had to know she was up for the job, that she could do what it takes. Not everyone has the strength to kill another human being, but I’m glad to see that she can.”

“More tests,” I whispered, experiencing a bit of déjà vu. The same thing that had happened to me, something similar for Mayor Waters – only I never killed, or tried to kill, anyone. “Just like me.”

“Aren’t you a smart one,” the woman gave a coy smile. She walked over, heels _click-clicking_ until she was so close all I could see were the buttons on her suit. I felt something on my head, pushing it around. The woman continued, “Ever since the day you first saved my life, I always wondered what you looked like. Who you were. Just who, exactly, is the mysterious Falcon, who barely speaks to us lowly common folk, and stands high above the rest of the city, so proud of her wings?”

 _No, no, no!_ I panicked, I tried to move, to do anything to stop this from happening. But there had been no change in my paralysis, absolutely nothing I could do to prevent the woman – _what was her name_? – from seeing my face.

I didn’t think there could be anything worse than dying. Until now.

Her hand, resting on top of my helmet, slid down until her nails hooked underneath, scratching my chin. I tried to pull away, but it only emerged as a small shudder. The woman pulled off the helmet, bending my neck back to do so and in one swift move —

 _Whoosh_.

Cold, musky air met my face. Flyaway hair was sent free, the rest tumbling over my face and shoulders as my head fell forward. My thoughts danced around in my head, frantic and bouncing. _No, no, no...bad dream, this is all a bad dream..._

“There you are,” she cooed, all sweet smiles, yet there was a chilling lightness to the woman’s voice. “Let’s see that pretty little face of yours, birdie.”

I felt a hand under my chin, the skin soft and the touch caressing as it tilted her head back up, so she could finally look into the eyes of _Oriole Kane oh my god not her not her anyone but her_ —

The woman smiled, face hidden in shadow from the light above. “Hm, you’re younger than I imagined. Youth is wasted on the dumb, I suppose.”

Kane dropped her hand and my head tilted to the side, neck still bent back. The only thing I could see was the ceiling, the small square of light in the corner where I had dropped in, blinding me. The sunlight, just barely getting warm, fell upon my face, like a cruel tease of freedom. So close, yet so far away.

My breathing was laborious – alongside my inner panic, the drugs were forcing me into a false sense of security. Staying up, staying awake and alert was taking its toll.

“I must admit, I’m rather disappointed I don’t recognize your face,” Kane said with a forlorn sigh, as if this were my fault. “I was hoping for a scandal, a minor celebrity and their bizarre turn in lifestyle choices; a rich debonair heiress to a Fortune 500 company, turned to vigilantism from a dark event in her past; it’d be on the news for weeks, if this got out. But, as they say, what happens on the ship, stays on the ship.”

“You don’t...remember me?” I was too delirious to feel much surprise, although a part of me was insulted. After all these lengths to protect my identity, after even _working under_ this woman for almost a month, met her face-to-face and had conversations with her...Oriole Kane had absolutely no recollection of me? “I was...an intern...at your company...”

“Well, you’re going to have to be a little bit more specific than that,” the executive chuckled with a shrug of her shoulders. “I have a lot of interns, faces who come and go every other week. I’m a busy woman; I don’t have time to keep track of them all. If you gave me your name, I suppose that might ring a bell.”

“Sorry, all you’re...going to get...” I wasn’t stupid, I wasn’t going to risk my family and friends, on top of having my identity compromised. I supposed I was lucky, that Oriole Kane didn’t remember well enough herself.

“Oh, well,” Kane didn’t seem particularly devastated by this news, which also made me a little mad. She didn’t _care_? All this effort, all this time, and she wasn’t even going to bother? “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’d know the name of anybody worth knowing. You’re just a silly little girl. A Nobody.”

 _Nobody_.

A faint smirk pulled at my lips. “For someone who hates...the White Rose...you talk just like ‘em.”

_Crack!_

My head snapped to the side when the butt of the pistol flew across my temple. The pain was dulled by the drugs, but I could still feel the blood starting to pour down over my eye, down my cheek. Like a bad migraine, the ache spread across my face and I vaguely wondered if Kane had broken something with the strike.

But the simple fact I managed to break the woman’s smooth façade made me choke out in laughter, in spite of the pain. “Oh wow...the mighty Kane...finally slips up.”

That small triumph started to fade when I saw Kane’s grimace, but I kept up with my irreverence, knowing that it would only irritate Kane further. I didn’t think I’d take much joy in irking my enemies, but I found herself pleasantly surprised. Guess Spider-Man had it right all along.

“Don’t push your luck, girl,” Kane snapped, her brow drawn down and marring the perfect skin of her face. For a woman obsessed with PR, anger didn’t do her appearance any favors. She waved the gun in my general direction, saying, “I was considering giving you a quick end, a small mercy before you burned in hell. But now...I don’t think so.”

“Hell’s preferable to you.” I muttered, earning a sneer from Kane.

“Hmph. I gave you a choice, once,” Kane said, her voice dangerously soft. She grabbed my chin, forced it around so we could look eye to eye. “To repay the favor. I _created_ you, Falcon. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be nothing. If you had joined me, the people would love you. They would cheer for you. I would have provided you all the tools you needed to crack down on the White Rose. We would have understood each other. Who knows, we might have even become... family.”

There was a faint tinge of longing in the woman’s voice. Her eyes glazed over for a second, as though she were not really looking at me at all, but gazing into a dream. Then her gaze hardened and she said, “All I wanted was a little _respect_. You owe me that.”

“Respect is earned.” I rasped. I could hear the Doc’s voice echoing in the back of her mind. To me, it felt like he was actually there, that firm tone he took whenever he was about to lecture; I hated them, and yet right now that was all I wanted; I’d listen to a thousand lectures if it meant I didn’t have to be here right now. It was getting harder to differentiate between fantasy and reality. But I knew what the Doc would say, nonetheless. “No one... is entitled to it.”

“You’re one to judge,” Kane’s grip tightened on my face, her nails digging into my skin. I couldn’t tell if Kane was doing it on purpose. She seemed beside herself in rage. “You and your arrogance, thinking you’re superior to the rest of us, just because you think you fight on the side of justice, of truth. But you are the one who lies, the one who hides her face. You’re indecisive, you pick and choose who you fight – what does that make you, Falcon? Who do you think you are?”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t say my name. I couldn’t even say my alias – because Kane had given me that name. It didn’t even really belong to me, it hadn’t been my idea. So I remained silent rather than humiliate myself further.

“That’s what I thought,” Kane said with a smile, understanding exactly what was going on in my head. “You have no identity of your own, but you just can’t stand the idea that anyone can choose for you. Is it really that bad? You don’t have to worry about the responsibility that you heroes care so much about.”

“Just kill me already,” I mumbled, trying to jerk my chin out of Kane’s grip, but only managed to slump further in my seat. I was getting tired of this conversation; I didn’t want to continue on this line of thought. It hurt too much to think about, and I couldn’t face it. I didn’t want to. “Get it over with.”

“And like all heroes, you cannot comprehend the truth when your morals are questioned,” Kane finished with a look of self-satisfaction, drawing back and letting go of my face. She had the gun aimed away, was now fiddling with something on her wrist. “You’d rather hide, because that’s easier. So typical. There’s nothing left for you now. It’s my time to go anyways, but I’ll leave you with this.”

She pressed something into my palm. My head was angled just right to be able to see what it was: a gold watch. It was probably worth more than the entire apartment building I used to live in.

Kane tapped the face of the watch. “In ten minutes, this entire ship is going to go up in flames. Well, an explosion, really. I’ll be long gone by then, but I just wanted to give you the pleasure of knowing exactly when you’re going to die, and knowing that there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

I stared at the watch. The time ticking down. I didn’t know so much time had passed already. The drug would take several more hours to wear off....

“Good night, Falcon,” Kane said, disappearing from my line of sight as she walked away. Her voice echoed off the walls. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

The hollow clicking of heels. The clang of a door shutting. A lock. Then nothing.

I was alone. And I was going to die.

 

* * *

 

 

Panic rose in my throat, but no matter how hard she tried, I couldn’t move. I tried to think that there had to be weakness in this plan, that Kane must have forgotten something in the process of setting this up...

...but I was incapacitated. I was stuck on a ship that was going to blow up in ten — _no, nine_ — minutes, and there was no way I could recover fast enough to get out of here.

My metabolism wasn’t that fast...was it?

I tried to think, squeezed my eyes shut to force myself to concentrate, to think through the hallucinogen flowing through my system. There had to be a way to speed up the process. Exercise always made me hungry, but that required muscle movement. Burning calories. Increased heart rate.

Heart rate.

An idea struck me, the proverbial lightbulb. It was a faint one, and I almost lost it the moment I came upon the epiphany. But I held onto the idea for all I was worth, refused to let my mind succumb to Rosebud.

How do you increase heart rate? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember. Then there was the Doc’s voice, loud and clear as though he was right beside her.

“ _I try to keep an even blood pressure_ ,” he repeated from an earlier conversation, cleaning the lenses of his glasses with his purple shirt. “ _I keep calm. Because when I get angry...well, bad things happen_.”

Anger.

I need anger.

So I thought of the most recent experience of this – Kane and Waters. The burning in my chest, rising like magma up the throat of a volcano. But it wasn’t strong enough; the magma was stopped by the solid cap of the volcano. There was not enough pressure to break free.

I started taking deep breaths, in quick succession. I remembered a girl in seventh grade, who passed out after hyperventilating when she got a really bad test grade. I couldn’t remember how heart rate correlated with metabolism — in fact, I wasn’t even sure there was one — but it was the only thing I had at the moment, and I was willing to try anything that might save my life.

I was certainly panicked enough that the hyperventilating would have come naturally, but it took effort to make my muscles move.

Less than a minute later ( _seven minutes left_ ) I felt a twitch in my toes, my fingertips. _Yes, it’s working!_

But did I have enough time to get moving again, to leave before the ship blew up?

* * *

 

 

Second by agonizing second, I was slowly able to get myself moving again. First, it was my left foot. Then, the thumb on my right hand. A bit later, I could move my neck, just enough to look around more.

My chest ached and I was feeling dizzy – either from the hyperventilating or the drugs, I couldn’t be sure – but I didn’t stop my internal onslaught. Slowly but surely, I was regaining control of my body.

Finally, I managed to clench my whole fist around the watch in my hand, covering the remaining time left ( _four minutes_ ) which felt like it was passing too slow and too fast at the same time. The pain of my little exercise was increasing and more and more — I wished it would be over soon, and it stretched out the time...yet, I was acutely aware of how little of it I had left, the panic setting in my mind, making it drift every couple seconds, and I had little jolts every time I looked at the watch and saw that there was even less time than before.

 _Move, move, move!_ My shoulders came back into commission. I didn’t wait for the rest of my torso to come into play – breathing was getting easier, just a little bit – before I pushed on my feet, now working, and toppled the chair over, myself with it.

There was a tremendous crash, amplified by the large, empty room with its metal walls. For a second, the breath was knocked out of me and I seized, realizing that I had lost my gusto. But that just put me get back into it with more force than ever.

With heavy, tired arms, I managed to push herself up. Although I now had control of my limbs, my muscles were still trembling and sluggish. The Rosebud still had its grip on me, no matter how hard I breathed. But it was enough. Just barely enough.

My fine motor controls were shot to hell. I could barely keep the grip on the watch, couldn’t maneuver it to see the time. Then, my powers, my radar – all out of the question. Right now, I hadn’t felt so normal – so _weak,_ so _pathetic, what a failure_ – in my entire life. Had I been some regular human stuck in this situation, how likely was it I’d be able to make it out of here?

I knew the answer, but didn’t dwell on it. I just thanked the Universe that for whatever abilities I had gained by the Gray Matter, at least some of the physical attributes hadn’t been negated by the Rosebud.

Getting to my feet, I swayed. My sense of balance had been knocked askew as well. I took one step forward and almost collapsed. I caught the fallen chair for balance before pushing myself up again.

 _Come on, you can do this_. I could barely think past my own breathing, the determination to leave this place alive. I managed a glance at the watch (almost puked from the nausea of movement). I had less than two minutes left.

Oh, god. I stared at the long hallway towards the only door in the room. I couldn’t leave from the way I came – I was in no state to fly. But I didn’t know if I had the strength, the willpower, to make it all the way to the stairs, to _climb_ the stairs...

But step by step, I forced herself forward. I remembered, at the last second, to fetch my helmet, and I clutched it to my belly as I moved, hoping that it would help hold back the nausea and pain. It was soothing, somewhat, but each jerk of a footstep left my mind reeling.

When I finally made it to the door, thirty seconds later – _too long, too long!_ – I tried the door handle. Only to find it locked.

 _What...No, no, no!_ I gasped, whimpered, jiggling the handle for all I was worth. I had forgotten Kane locked the way behind her, just in case.

No, this can’t be happening! I have to get out! Please! Let me out!

“No!” I cried, slamming my fist into the metal door. Tears streamed down my face as I leaned against it, too weak to keep myself up for so long. So close, I was _so close_... it was right there, I could feel it.

I could feel it.

I could _feel_ it.

I swallowed, looking up in surprise. I could feel the metal, the zig-zag of the steps beyond, as if they were an extension of myself. It was an image in my mind, both real and not, almost as though I could touch it, despite the fact that there was a door in my way. I could feel that too, all of it, the tensile of the metal, its rigidity, its hollowness...

No way...

My radar was back.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t very strong, like everything else. Each movement I made threatened it, flickering with anything too rough. But I could feel the mechanism of the lock, the tiny gears and springs and latches...

I concentrated, hard. Hard enough to double the headache in my head, to aggravate the blow Kane had given me. It took everything just to lift that tiny latch, to activate the tiny machine within the door, to make it click and swing open. My weight still on the door, I collapsed to the other side, knees banging against the stairs. My head was pounding from the effort – lock-picking had never been this hard. I almost vomited, but I hadn’t had a meal in a while.

My radar was gone. Blinked out. The effort to free myself had spent whatever psychic energy I managed to accumulate and suddenly I felt empty, alone again. My mind trapped inside itself, nowhere to go, nothing to touch.

But I didn’t care. I could see sunlight about her, streaming warm against my face, the cool river wind blowing my hair away, freshening the skin covered in sweat.

And with a huge heave, I stepped up.

 

* * *

 

 

I was on my hands and knees when I finally climbed over the last set of steps and onto the open deck of the ship. I didn’t have the strength to go up the stairs on my two legs alone, and had to crawl the rest of it up on all fours. It was sad, pathetic, in a way, but I had little concern for my pride now...I was almost there.

I was almost free.

One last glance at the watch. Oh, god, not even a whole minute. Less than thirty seconds!

This ship was going to blow.

 

* * *

 

 

The time it took to get from the stairs to the railing seemed took an excruciatingly long time. I knew that I had spent too much time on the stairs, that opening the door had wasted precious seconds that could have been spent finding another safe way off the ship.

_Fifteen..._

* * *

 

 

           

What other safe way? I knew it was crazy. I had no choice but to choose the steps. There hadn’t been another way out. Even if there had, it was too late now. I had to keep going. I needed a way off.

But how? I didn’t have the time to find a lifeboat, to find a raft or a vest or an inflatable ring to take with me. Just my helmet.

It was all I needed, in the end.

_Fourteen..._

* * *

 

 

           

My feet dragged behind me, as if some part of my mind didn’t want to leave the ship. I could feel herself slowing down, my energy finally depleted, all gone. But I couldn’t stop, not now, not when I was so close...

_Thirteen..._

* * *

 

 

           

Breathe in, breath out. Breathe in, Breath out.

 _Twelve_...

* * *

 

 

Twenty feet away. Why did it feel like a mile?

_Eleven..._

* * *

 

 

Black clouds in the distance, billowing up from the downtown skyscrapers.

_Ten..._

* * *

 

 

I almost made the mistake of pausing, I was so surprised at the sight of the ruined city skyline, cold wind in my hair. But I kept going, forcing not to think about whatever disaster lay ahead of me. I’ll cross that bridge when I’d get there.

 _If_ I got there.

 _Nine_...

* * *

 

 

Screaming. I could hear screaming.

_Eight..._

* * *

 

How clever of Kane, to incapacitate me and then take the city by storm. Surely she’d need someone else to accomplish this, but who? Goblin?

No, that wouldn’t make sense. Harry was with Gwen and Peter. He wouldn’t act out. He was safe. They were all safe.

Right?

_Seven..._

* * *

 

 

Was Harry all right? I couldn’t see Oscorp tower, completely enveloped by the massive cloud of black smoke. Whatever happened, she hoped Spider-Man was there to help.

_Six..._

* * *

 

 

Ten feet away – almost there! Almost there, almost there _, you can do it_ , almost there!

 _Five_...

* * *

 

 

Toe tripping, falling, knee catching. Pain.

_Four..._

* * *

 

No no no, can’t fall, can’t fall, get up get up get up –!

_Three..._

* * *

 

 

Pushing up, surging, panting, crying – running – get there get there get there!

_Two..._

* * *

 

 

Metal bars against hands, legs bending, pushing, leaping, head on one side then the other and suddenly –

_One..._

* * *

 

Empty air.

Freezing water.

Ball of fire.

_Zero._

* * *

 

 

I landed in the river, an uncontrolled fall into the too-cold water. The snow had since melted, but this wasn’t the season for swimming. People could still get hypothermia, going in this early. In the back of my mind, I felt like a real jerk to those Pumpkinheads.

But it was the only option.

My back hit the surface first. I was looking up, just in time to see a piercing white flash, watch as the metal grew bright, cracked, tore itself apart.

I was already underneath before the flames could touch me.

The water rippled and bounced from the shockwave, and for a few seconds I felt warm as the explosion almost boiled the first few feet of the river. But it was gone in the next instant and the cold returned, making my skin tingle and numb.   
  
Bubbles floated above my head. I was still holding onto my helmet, but didn’t think to let it go so I could swim for the surface. No, this was much nicer. I was so comfortable. The water, so soft, caressing, like a blanket. Cooled the heat on my face, in my mind, made it easy to let it go.

More bubbles fled my lips.

What was I thinking...if I didn’t die by fire, I’d drown instead.

It didn’t bother me very much.

I just closed my eyes, and let the darkness swallow me whole.


	37. Pater Familias

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**Pater Familias**

* * *

 

 

 

“ _Hold on, I got you_.”

A masculine voice, rough and reassuring and fearless. Warm hands on her arms, shoulders, legs.

There was a hand pressing against my ribcage, just a light touch before water rushed up my esophagus - _stop, stop, make it stop, hurts too much –_ then suddenly there was air again and I was swallowing it by the lungful.

“ _Hang in there, kiddo_.”

I didn’t recognize the voice. My eyes opened. Dark sky, the moon, a faint light. I saw a head over mine. Short blond hair, graying a little. Crinkling at the eyes. A quick smile, some stubble.

“ _There you go. Just take deep breaths.”_

Every take of oxygen burned in my throat, and I writhed, trying to fight it off. I didn’t know what. I just wanted it gone.

Those same warm hands caught my arms, forced them down. “Hey, easy now. Don’t hurt yourself. That was a pretty long fall you took. You’re lucky you even made it out of there alive. And that I was here to pick you up.”

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. The sun blinded me, and I couldn’t really get a good look at his face. The man moved away. I tried to get up, my body refused to move. I was too tired. I was still on Rosebud. My eyelids were heavy, and sleep begged me to return.

But the questions buzzed in my mind, too active to rest. I would not rest.

And I could speak. Just barely. “Who…who are you?”

My throat rattled with water and I coughed up some more. By the time I was done, I was in so much pain I forgot I even asked a question at all. That’s why I didn’t really understand when the man spoke again.

“No one you need to know.”

He sounded far away, like he moved, and I felt the ground shift beneath me. Oh, not ground. Wood. Rubber. An engine buzzing. I was on a boat. He was taking me back to land. At least I hoped.

That answer was good enough for me. Well, not really, but my attempt to speak again failed and I just slumped where I lied, just trying to remember how to breath. I was freezing, barely even aware of the towel draped over me. My fingers, numb, clung loosely at it, wanting comfort but finding little.

Mayor Waters. The gun. Kane. The watch.

The watch.

“You still have it.” The man said. I didn’t even realize I said it out loud. “It’s still in your hand. Well, it doesn’t work now, but that’s what you get for taking a swim in the Hudson.”

I clenched my hands, felt the metal bite into my skin, and I relaxed. I needed this. I already knew what I wanted to do with it.

“How…” I had to choke back on a sob, pushing away the memory of the gun against my head, of the click when my life almost vanished. “How did you…find me?”

“A very helpful man told me where.”

“W-who?”

“Well, not really a friend. My knife did most of the convincing.”

I licked my lips, barely registering the real meaning behind the man’s answers. But I understood them nonetheless. I clung onto them, not daring to forget. “…Why?”

The man didn’t answer. I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I said again, louder, “Why…why did you come?”

The boat rocked as we traveled over waves. I could smell gasoline and heard distant honking as we drew closer to the city.

“Because,” the man said eventually. “You’re very important, Amy. And someone cares very much about you and what you’ve been doing lately.”

I nodded, appeased, letting my head fall back against the seat of the boat. I couldn’t really feel it. The world was a haze around me. I couldn’t see the man, or my hands, or my feet — just night sky above me, the moon a welcoming face, greeting me back to the world of the living.

As I closed my eyes and felt myself drift, it occurred to me I never told the man my name.


	38. Resurgum

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

**Resurgum**

* * *

 

The funeral was a quick, dour affair.

Then again, I guess not many people liked Norman Osborn.

Peter sat still and silent beside me as the priest spoke. He didn’t speak when we first showed up at the gravesite, during the procession, or when Mr. Jameson, another guest, gave him a short, actually humble, hello.

He still hadn’t told me everything that happened the night Goblin attacked him, Harry, and Gwen.

Harry was in better condition, if only slightly. Since he and Spider-Man were the only two to witness his father go up in flames, he seemed awfully stoic. Then again, he also learned that Chameleon, a face-changer, had been masquerading as his father for some time. It made it easier for the real Norman Osborn to become the Green Goblin.

What I didn’t know of the events were filled in by news coverage, which happened to be the only thing the news wanted to cover, anyways. They hadn’t gotten the part where Norman was the Green Goblin, but everything else was there for the world to learn about. How he attack OSCORP tower, how he and Spider-Man fought across rooftops, the hidden stores of bombs kept all over the place, and how one of them ended up as the Goblin’s demise.

Irony, as it were.

Gwen held Harry’s hand the whole time. But she looked at Peter as she did so. They exchanged looks every now and then, and I could only wonder what I missed that night at her house, when Harry admitted everything.

I still felt terrible for missing it. I wondered what would’ve happened had I been there. Had I been at OSCORP tower. Would I have been able to protect Harry? Would I have stopped him from witnessing his father’s death? Could we have brought the Goblin to justice?

It didn’t matter, really. Just pointless questions. I knew what I would’ve done, had I been given a second chance. Had I known where Mayor Waters true motives lied.

It had been surprisingly easy. One day I was unconscious in a boat driven by a mysterious man who knew my name — the next I was waking up in a hospital, to the news, on which Mayor Waters was walking down the steps of City Hall in handcuffs, being stuffed into a police car while being hounded by reporters.

Apparently, someone had recorded her full confession while she had faced me on the boat. Maybe it was Kane. Maybe it was the man who saved me. Whoever it was, they had done their job.

When I had asked the nurse who brought me to the hospital, she described a man in his mid-forties, tall, stoic, and kind of handsome. She had assumed he was my father. She didn’t get the chance to ask; he had disappeared shortly after I was placed on a gurney and rushed to the emergency room.

My suit had been too ripped up to identify me. No boots, no gloves, no helmet. The doctors assumed I was some crazy diver trying to pull a stunt in a Hudson that went horribly awry.

I let them think that.

Peter and Aunt May showed up some time later to check on me. I wasn’t ready to leave, which meant I got an earful about responsibility and fear _and I nearly had another heart attack don’t do that to me again young lady_.

Now I had to call her on a regular basis. Once a day, at least. It wasn’t as bad as I thought; with the Goblin gone and the Rose (both of them) scattered and on the run from a very interested FBI team, my job on the streets had become much easier. I had plenty of time to consider my next move.

Kane was gone. Vanished. Probably to some faraway island in the middle of the Caribbean. But the FBI were still looking for her, after Mayor Waters confessed.

I hoped she got my package.

Now I could take a few days off and enjoy the early spring weather. The last of the snow was finally melting away, and grass was starting to grow. There was a fresh scent in the air, the first warning sign for people with allergies. Life had returned to New York City.

It gave an almost hopeful presence at the funeral; something I wasn’t sure was appropriate or not. Although Norman Osborn was dead, Harry knew he was never the Goblin, that he had been framed by his own father, and wasn’t afraid to admit the truth that Norman Osborn was not a good man.

And yet, I couldn’t help but feel surprised when Harry eventually said, “Spider-Man could’ve saved him.”

We were standing over the grave, freshly buried. Harry laid down a rose, on top of the pile left by the other guests. He remained still, clinging to Gwen, and I exchanged looks with Peter as Harry continued, “My father was sick. He needed help. Why didn’t Spider-Man see that?”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Gwen murmured.

But Harry just shook his head, clenched his fists. “It’s just not fair. He didn’t deserve to die.”

What could we say to that? I kind of disagreed but, you know, speaking ill of the dead and all. Osborn and the Goblin were gone. There was nothing left to it.

Harry just sighed, and turned to embrace Gwen in a hug. “Thanks for being here for me, Gwen. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her reply was supportive, but the look she gave Peter over Harry’s shoulder was an apologetic one. I still had no idea what exactly was said that night at her house, but I was guessing it wasn’t just about Harry.

When we departed, I asked Peter, “What happened back there? I thought you and Gwen were, I don’t know, supposed to be honest with each other.”

“We _were_ ,” Peter shrugged helplessly. “I broke up with Liz, and she wanted to do the same with Harry, but…well, it seems kind of cruel to do that now, I guess. It wouldn’t be fair. And after what I did…”

I pressed a hand to his arm. “It’s not your fault. It was just an accident. Norman died because of his own actions, not yours.”

“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t really feel that way, to me. Harry blames me. Well, Spider-Man. He hates him. How am I going to fix that?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t like admitting it, but it was the truth. We came upon the sidewalk, stepping over puddles and unbuttoning our jackets. It was getting too warm for them already. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see what happens next.”

“I hate it when you say things like that,”

“You’re not the only one.”

Peter just sighed, shaking his head. “Okay, I can’t keep thinking about this right now. Tell me what happened about the guy that saved your life.”

“Not much,” I said, feeling for the photograph I had folded into my pocket. I drew it out, carefully. “Except for this. I knew I recognized him from somewhere.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, taking the photograph without question. Unfolding it, he took one look and stopped in his tracks. He stared at me. “But…this is your mom and…”

“My dad.” I said, taking the photo back, glancing at the two teens in the photograph. My mother and the blond boy, both smiling, happy. No idea what was going to happen to them. “I know. He’s still alive.”

“But…how?”

“I don’t know.” I said, putting the photograph back in my pocket. “But I’m going to find him.”

 

* * *

 

 

_On an island somewhere in the Carribean_ _…_

Oriole Kane lounged on a chaise by the poolside, the glittering see in the distance. The hot, humid air was a lovely change from the cool March weather she was used to in New York. The sun beamed down at her, warm and inviting, as exotic birds called over her head. Palm trees swayed on a light breeze.

So far away from any trouble, she didn’t have a single worry that any of it would reach her. How could it? No one could find her here, and Mayor Waters was still under her thumb; Kane had paid too much to lose that woman’s loyalty.

And after watching the last nuisance in her life go up in flames, Kane could drink her mimosa in peace.

Flipping through TIME magazine, Kane’s attention was disrupted by a shadow falling over her.

“Package for you, ma’am.”

She looked up, peering over her sunglasses at the tray presented before her. The servant looked a little nervous as she took the small, brown-paper-wrapped box and placed it in her lap, undoing the twine. What was this? It didn’t look like any of her business work, and Kane had specifically told her secretary not to give anyone her address while she was on vacation.

And yet, here it was. Maybe Kane ordered something and forgot about it? Unlikely, but possibly.

She unwrapped the packaging to reveal a plain box inside. Opening it, Kane dug her hand into the tissue paper. Her fingers grazed against cool, smooth metal and glass.

When she took it out, Kane froze. Gold-plating. Pearl face. Lovely.

A watch.

 _The watch_.

Kane just stared, her mouth falling open. _No_ _…_

_How?_

“Uh, Miss Kane,” the servant stuttered, calling her attention back to him, this time her face pulled into a scowl. He raised a shaking finger to something behind her. “You have, er, guests.”

“What?” Kane looked over her shoulder, stunned to see two men standing in the doorway of her patio, wearing identical blue jackets.

They both pulled badges out of their pockets. “FBI. You’re under arrest, Oriole Kane.”

Kane did nothing as they approached with handcuffs, could only stand numbly. As her wrists were pulled behind her back, she grit her teeth, and one of the agents smirked. “Guess you shoulda picked a country with better extradition laws, huh?”

“We’ve got a lot of questions.” The second said. “In particular, about a certain man named the Kingpin…”

 

* * *

 

 

No, how I managed it wasn’t legal, what I did. Let’s just say I pretended to be someone I wasn’t to get something I shouldn’t have.

It was too late by the time the Doc found out, and I stood through the lecture because, well, I hadn’t had enough of those lately — also it was too late anyways. The package was already on its way to Kane.

Matt was a little more impressed, and I was glad for the approval, especially considering I didn’t have to hurt anyone (or myself) to prove it. I got to watch on the TV at _Nelson & Murdock_ the live footage as Oriole Kane was brought back to US soil in handcuffs, flanked by sunburned FBI agents.

“I have to admit,” Foggy said, leaning against Karen’s desk and grinning smugly as we watched. “That is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever seen. How often do you learn that a major CEO of a multi-million dollar company is also the head of a dangerous mob?”

“I heard they’re going into the NYPD and the city councilboard members,” Karen added, smiling as well. “Waters had a full list of names of everyone working for Kane and the Rose. Now they’re just cleaning up shop.”

“The FBI must be having a field day,” Matt added, looking fairly pleased himself. I had a feeling he had something to do with all the names of collaborators released to the public. “I expect the city’s going to be a pretty different place after this.”

“If only they got that Kingpin guy, too,” I muttered.

“Hey, one thing at a time,” Matt rested a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Good work was done this week. We should be happy this happened.”

I remembered the concern he had when I got back to him after the boat exploded; he still felt guilty for unwittingly sending me into a deadly trap, and being unable to save me. I told him about the man who had, but left out the part about my theories of his relation to me. Matt was probably trying to make it up to me now, wanting me to feel positive. I smiled, appreciating the effort.

“Happy?” Foggy snorted. “Concerned is more like it. I can’t believe Amy was right about police corruption. Can you believe how many cops they arrested? Over a hundred! That’s how massive and powerful the Rose was. Or maybe they still are. Who knows how many people they still got out there.”

“Well, they have a lot less now,” Karen pointed out, raising her eyebrows. “Especially now that the FBI is coming down on them with all they have. I think Matt’s right; this is good. I say we go for drinks after —”

The sound of the door opening behind us interrupted Karen, and we all turned around to see a woman step into the office. She was about middle-aged, curly red hair tied into a bun, and severe-looking face.

“Uh, can we help you?” Karen asked, blinking in surprise while the rest of us exchanged confused looks.

“Yes, I’m looking for an Amelia Fletcher. I was told she works for Nelson & Murdock.” The woman nodded, her hands stuffed in her beige trench coat. There was something very clean, very professional about her that made me shift nervously on my feet. What was she looking for me for?

“That’s us,” Matt said.

“And that’s me.” I added, stepping forward slightly. I frowned at the woman. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“This is about your mother,” The woman said, shuffling for something in her pocket.

“My mother?” I blinked, surprised. I glanced at Matt. “Did you say anything?”

“What? No,” Matt frowned at me, looking just as bewildered as I felt. “I didn’t contact anyone. I have no idea who she is.”

“Don’t look at me, either,” Foggy said, holding up his hands.

“It’s fine, Amelia, I came looking for you on my own.” The woman replied, pulling out a black wallet from her pocket. She held it out, and it fell open. A badge.

The woman said, “I’m Agent Forrester. I’m from Witness Protection.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s it! Thanks for reading this entire goddamn fic, as well as the other one. Unless you didn’t read the first one. In which case you’re probably really confused. I don’t know what you expected.  
>  Anyways, just wanted to end it there, have a nice little twist to finish the story. Guess Amy’s mother was hiding more than we thought :)  
>  And, like last time, I’ll leave you with a song that I think fits the theme of this story. Think of it like a credits song, if this were a movie or a show. 
> 
>  
> 
> Song: Wildfire by DOROTHY
> 
> (I personally love this band. They don’t have a lot of songs right now, but like all of them are pretty awesome.)
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! I hope you leave a final review, and tell me what you think of that ending!  
>  There might also be a stinger scene after this *wink*
> 
> And if you liked these fics, don't forget to check out my other fic, Incandscent. It's Amelia's story, retold in a crossover of MCU and Amazing Spider-Man movies.


	39. Post Script

**Post Script**

**(Epilogue)**

* * *

 

 

“…Yes, I have her in my custody now.”          

“ _Did she cause any problems_?”

“Well, Miss Fletcher refused to come along willingly,” Agent Forrester replied, walking down the front steps of the courthouse. She stopped outside, observing the street. Just regular passerby, and the black sedan waiting for her at the curb. Speaking into her cell, she continued, “Tried to fight me when I insisted. Girl’s stronger than she looks, lemme tell you. Think she cracked a rib.”

“ _Did you sedate her?_ ”

“Wasn’t necessary,” Forrester winced, twisting her torso. There was bruising, that’s for sure. She was going to be sore for weeks because of that stupid kid. “Fletcher couldn’t do much once I cuffed her. Got her in the back of the car, and I just retrieved her new papers. We’re heading out for California as soon as possible.”

“ _How much does she know_?”

“Not much. She was surprised when I told her I was from Witness Protection,” Forrester replied with a shrug her boss couldn’t see. She started heading towards the car, briefcase in tow. “Or that she and her mother have been living under false identities since before she was born. I’d make an educated guess and say she knows nothing about who her father is.”

“ _Good. Make sure it stays that way_.”

“Got it,” Forrester replied, before ending the call and stuffing her phone into her pocket. She reached the sedan and opened the passenger door, throwing in the briefcase and ducking in. She had already started speaking before checking to see if the girl was even listening, “All right, Amelia, say good-bye to New York, because we’re not coming back. You ready to go, Jim?”

“Ready when you are.”

“Really? Handcuffs, that’s it?” Forrester expected a reply from the girl, so when it was a _male_ voice that answered, she whipped around. She gaped at the boy lounging in the backseat, black mask covering his eyes. “Kind of weaksauce, don’t you think, dove?”

Amelia just stared at him, like the two adults. However, she seemed to be the only one happy to see him. “Smoke! I thought you were dead!”

“How did you get in here?” Forrester demanded at the same time, reaching for her gun. There was no way he could’ve gotten inside. All the doors were locked. Jim would’ve noticed something, surely.

“Oh, the flowers, I forgot!” the boy, Smoke, said, holding up a finger. A second later, he flicked his hand, like a magician, and a bundle of flowers appeared in his hand. “Sweet pea, like you said.”

“You remembered!” Amelia gasped, taking them, pressing the flowers to her face and taking a deep sniff.

“Don’t touch that!” Forrester snapped, whacking the flowers from her hand. Amelia let out a noise of complaint and had to bend down to pick up the flowers. At the same time, she aimed the gun at the boy. “You have three seconds to leave before I shoot you. Three.”

“Is she serious?” the boy asked as Amelia came back up with the flowers.

“A little too much, I think.”

“Two.”

“Wow, and I didn’t think there was anyone worse than you,” the boy replied, his eyebrows shooting up.

“One.” Forrester paused, surprised when her threat had absolutely no effect on the intruder. Forrester’s first instinct was to pull out her gun and fire two shots at the unwelcome stranger sitting in the back seat. Only she was stunned to see the bullets go _through_ him.

The boy made a face at Forrester. “Well, that was _rude_. I’m starting to see why you don’t like her,” he said to Amelia next to him.

“Do you _know_ him?” Forrester demanded at the same time the girl answered, “Yeah, it gets old pretty fast.”

“Sounds like you’re ready to leave.” The boy said. They were facing each other, completely ignoring Forrester now.

“Are you kidding? I’m so bored. And I’ve got other things in mind besides California.” The girl shrugged. “You want to help?”

“And break my favorite girl out of protective custody?” The boy pressed a hand to his chest, as if offended. Then he grinned a wicked grin. “I thought you’d never ask, dove.”

“If you think you’re going anywhere,” Forrester started, holding up her gun even though she didn’t think it was doing any good now. “You better think — what the hell?”

Right before her eyes, the girl yanked her wrists apart, the metal links of the cuffs snapping instantly. At the same time, the boy wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulled her in tight and planted a kiss on her head. The girl just smacked him — and they went up in puff of smoke.

Forrester’s gun was now aimed at two empty seats.

She scrambled for her radio. “She disappeared! I repeat, Fletcher is gone!”

Joe was already starting the car, kicking it into gear as Forrester stuck her head out the window, scanning the streets for the kids. But there was no sight of them. “Dammit! Where the hell did they go?”

It wasn’t possible.

It just wasn’t possible.

“Did you see what I see?” she demanded, turning back to face Joe, her hands clenching around the armrests. “Do you know what that was?”

“Yeah, I saw it!” Joe replied, the van screeching into traffic. They swayed violently in their streets as he pulled hard down a corner. “Have no idea what it was, but I do know one thing.”

“Yeah?” she snapped, glaring at him. “And what’s that?”

“She’s gone, Forrester. Amelia Fletcher is on the run.”

* * *

 

***electric guitar riff***

* * *

 


End file.
